


Reformed

by goldensnitch18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, First Time, Language, Loss of Virginity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 81,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldensnitch18/pseuds/goldensnitch18
Summary: Draco Malfoy is released from Azkaban and sent to Hogwarts for his eighth year where he has a year to show that he can be reformed. Hermione Granger, and her friends, are struggling to come to terms with what has happened to them and move on, but she has agreed to be Malfoy’s Muggle Studies tutor anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: The Trial**

**Friday,  July 10, 1998**

 

Azkaban may have been rid of Dementors, but it still stank of shit and death. It didn't matter how many times Draco Malfoy closed his eyes and tried to remember a time when his entire body wasn't steeped in the smell; it still consumed him completely and made him wish his death had been quick and painless during the battle at Hogwarts. Two months had passed since Potter had defeated the Dark Lord, and though the mark on his arm was fading, it didn't fade quite fast enough. Draco, his father, and his mother had all been brought to Azkaban and locked away inside its dank, gray cells. 

 

He had been given little to no information and had learned quickly not to ask for it. Draco knew that he was in prison. He knew his parents had also been brought to the prison and kept  separate from him. He knew that the Dementors had been forced out somehow and replaced by complex wards and guards, sometimes Aurors. He knew that he was fed the worst food of his life twice a day from a tray that was thrown on the floor and kicked into his cell. That was everything. That was all the facts he had left to hold onto in this world. He hadn't been given a specific charge of any crime or told what to expect. He was thrown into the filth and left there to wait for what? Death? A trial? The end of a sentence? 

 

In the beginning, he had wanted to know what was happening outside. He had wanted to know what was going to happen to him. He had wanted to know if he would ever step foot out of this cell again. He had wanted to know where his parents were and what was happening to them. Slowly, as days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, Draco had accepted his fate. There was nothing to do and nowhere to go. There was no one to talk to and nothing to say if he could. He was a prisoner of Azkaban now. There was no coming back from that, as he knew all too well. 

 

It was early in the morning, or late in the evening, or maybe high noon, it’s not like time mattered anymore, when someone stopped outside of his cell and cleared their throat. “Ger’up, Malfoy,” the voice sneered. Draco sat up on the bug infested mattress that had served as his bed for the past two months, wondering what in the world this man could want. His answer came quickly. “Time for your trial.” 

 

XXX

 

It was dark inside his bedroom at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. It was early in the morning and a small pale arm was draped over the boy’s chest, holding him possessively. The boy, Harry James Potter, lay with his hands behind his head, enjoying the feel of the girl’s breath on his neck, her leg over his leg. Her shorts barely hid any of the exquisite body that he had taken to devouring as often as possible. She was his prize, his spoils of war, the love of his life, and he was never letting go. 

 

Her mother had tried to keep Ginny at home at The Burrow, but there was no point. Ginny knew he didn’t sleep without her. Ginny knew he barely slept with her, and they needed each other. Fuck, did they need each other. After a year on the run and years of not knowing if they would both make it to this side of the war alive, they needed to know that the other was there, grounding them, keeping them anchored to this world. 

 

Harry tried not to think about the day that was coming all too soon when she would leave him and return to Hogwarts. She wanted and needed to go back and finish. He wanted and needed to be done with the place. He couldn’t wrap his mind around how he felt about Hogwarts or Dumbledore or any of the things that had happened to him there. He needed to leave it and not go back for now. He needed to be busy, to be doing something, and Kingsley Shacklebolt had given him that chance.  

 

Kingsley had asked him to join the Aurors and help him restructure the department. Harry had jumped at the offer. It was his dream job and he didn’t have to take a single N.E.W.T. to get it. Ron was supposed to be joining them as well, but Harry wasn’t sure if Ron would actually be following through or not. Ron was … Harry didn’t want to think about Ron. It was too hard. It was too painful. He would never get back to sleep. 

 

Instead, Harry forced himself to think about the day he had ahead of him. He was giving testimony today, something he had done many times already, but today was different. Today was Draco Malfoy’s trial, and in his gut, Harry knew he had to get him out of that place. That place had destroyed Sirius and stolen twelve years of his life. Draco Malfoy was many things, but he was not a murderer. He was a stupid git, born into a terrible family that taught him things he didn’t understand until he was faced with their consequences and realized that maybe he wasn’t as cold or as superior as he thought he was. Draco Malfoy didn’t belong there in Azkaban, and Harry Potter knew he had to help him. 

 

XXX

 

Hermione was buried in a book. Books were all she had right now to keep her heart from breaking, to keep her mind sane. She was staying at Grimmauld Place with Harry, well, and Ginny, and she had claimed the library as hers. Harry came in to see her occasionally and they would avoid talking about the one thing they both couldn’t stop thinking about: Ron. 

 

Ron had been a conundrum for the past two months, filling every silence, taking every moment she had and drawing her in. He was lost. He was so, so, so lost and Hermione just wanted him to be found. She needed him to be found. She needed her Ron who had snogged her in the middle of a battle and made her feel like her heart was on fire. That Ron was hidden right now behind grief and confusion, and Hermione wasn’t sure where to begin with him. These days, he was usually the one that caused her to hide in the library and bury herself in a book. 

 

Today, however, was different. Today was Draco Malfoy’s trial. Today, Hermione had to make a choice. She knew that Harry had already made his choice. He had told her how he felt, what he thought, and why he was going to testify for the Death Eater--because that is what he was. Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. 

 

He hated her. 

 

Draco Malfoy hated her. 

 

There was no real reason other than prejudice and lies, but he hated her. 

 

She didn’t know how she felt. She didn’t know what she thought. She didn’t know what she would say when it was her turn to sit there and give evidence. It wasn’t optional. She had evidence and they knew it. It was written on her arm, of course. 

 

Mudblood. 

 

He’d watched it happen. His eyes had met hers and she had tried to understand, but she didn’t know if she did. She didn’t know. 

 

But he had tried to lie about their identities. 

 

He had not killed Dumbledore. 

 

He had … what? 

 

Who was Draco Malfoy? 

 

She wanted to know the answer to that question more than anything. She needed to know. She didn’t know how to testify because she had no idea what he was hiding behind that blond hair and those gray eyes. As he had watched them carve into her arm, doing nothing, she had stared at him, pleaded with him, and he had stared back and those eyes, those gray eyes, had tried to tell her something that she didn’t understand. 

 

XXX

 

Ginny stood in the shower. Her body shook as she cried and cried and cried. She never cried in front of Harry. It wasn’t that she didn’t think she could. It wasn’t that she didn’t think he could handle it. It was just that she loved him so damn much that she couldn’t make him hurt anymore. She wanted to heal him, at least some small part of him, before she left him and went back to Hogwarts. She had to go back. She had to face it. She had to feel safe there again, to feel whole there again. 

 

Besides, she couldn’t let Hermione go off on her own. She knew Hermione was just as messed up as she was these days, and they needed each other, because Harry was pushing on and becoming even more of a damn bloody hero by letting go of things, and Ron was falling apart and sometimes girls just had to stick together. Sometimes you couldn’t shag everything right again, but she would be damned if she and Harry hadn’t been trying their hardest. 

 

Today was going to be fucking hard. Harry was being noble and she bloody loved him for it, but he was going to try his damnedest to get Draco Malfoy out of Azkaban and she bloody hated him for it. She got it. She had listened to Harry carefully, following his reasoning, agreeing with him even, but it all still hurt so damn much and she couldn’t get rid of the tiny part of her that was screaming that he was a Death Eater and deserved to rot. 

 

He’s just a kid. She would tell herself over and over. He’s just a spoiled, misguided, fucked up kid. He's just like us. Scared and stupid.  

 

She knew Malfoy didn’t kill Fred. She knew that he’d had nothing to do with it. She knew this in her brain and in her heart and in her soul, but she still had to shove down that small part of her that wanted vengeance from anyone it could take it from, and she hated that part of herself. That was why she cried in the shower because she knew if she had been him and her family had needed her to save them by doing terrible, awful, unforgivable things, she too would have tried her hardest to do them. 

 

XXX

 

Ron didn't know how to explain to his family how he felt. He was drowning in guilt and sadness and loss. He missed Fred, that was certain. He couldn't imagine what life was going to be like for the next however many years without him by George’s side. It had always been as if they were one person, not two. Fred would be missed, but he was not the reason that Ron couldn't hold Hermione's hand or kiss her or hold her. 

 

It was Lavender. 

 

Lavender lying in a pool of blood, Greyback feasting on her body. 

 

Ron should have been there. He should have protected her. He should have sent her away. Beautiful, funny, giggling Lavender didn't belong in a battle. 

 

But she had been there, and she had been savagely attacked, and Ron didn't know if she would ever be the same. He couldn't believe she was even alive, but she was. He had snuck away several times those first weeks, when the pain had been so bad that she had been kept unconscious with sleep and pain potions. He had held her hand and whispered apologies and wished that he could take it all away: the attack, the wounds, the pain. 

 

Sure, what they had had was largely dependent on snogging, but you didn't date someone for nearly a year and not have any feelings for them. He felt lost and awful and like he was to blame. If he had just stayed with her, not broken up with her, he would have been more worried about her during the battle. He could have saved her. 

 

After she had woken up enough that she was remembering things, Ron had stopped going in the room. He would arrive at St. Mungo’s and stand outside her door with his head against the wall. Many times he would just listen to her cry, as he tried not to do the same thing. 

 

XXX 

 

Draco was shackled, which he found laughable, actually, physically, not metaphorically, laughable. For the first time in however long it had been since he had last been able to find humor in something, Draco Malfoy laughed. He had no wand, and he was so weak that he wouldn’t be able to perform magic even if the Aurors walking him down the dark hallway had handed him one. It was ridiculous. 

 

“You’d think the Dementors had got this one, ey?” one Auror asked the other, shaking his head, and Draco didn’t give a shit what he thought. He was getting a trial. Sure, the chances of it being fair or landing him anywhere but Azkaban were slim to none, but it was a break in the monotony and maybe he could persuade someone to tell him something about his parents. 

 

The room they finally entered, once he had stopped laughing, was lit by torches and made of stone. Benches surrounded him, seats full of witches and wizards who had surely already made up their mind about him and his fate. “Take your seat,” a voice called out, and Draco moved to the center of the room and glanced at his shackles and then at the shackles on the chair. The Auror who had insinuated that he was insane came up behind him, tapped the wrists of his bindings and removed them. Draco sat and the chains sprang to life, clenching their way around his arms and legs. 

 

“This is the hearing for Draco Malfoy on July the Third for offenses as follows: That you, Draco Malfoy, did knowingly and in full awareness of the illegality of your actions join the group known as the Death Eaters and allow their mark to be burned into your skin.” Draco flinched at the memory. Guilty. “That you, Draco Malfoy, did knowingly and in full awareness of the illegality of your actions attempt to murder Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” Dumbledore. They were coming after him for Dumbledore. Guilty. “That you, Draco Malfoy, did knowingly and in full awareness of the illegality of your actions bring Death Eaters into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on June the 30th, 1997 with the intention of killing Dumbledore and succeed at your mission.” Guilty. “That you, Draco Malfoy, did knowingly and in full awareness of the illegality of your actions allow Tom Marvolo Riddle, widely known as Voldemort, Death Eaters, and several escaped convicts, including your father Lucius Malfoy, to live in your home at Malfoy Manor, which had become your property and responsibility upon your father's arrest.” Wait. What? Allow? “That you, Draco Malfoy, did knowingly and in full awareness of the illegality of your actions allow for the imprisonment of innocents at Malfoy Manor.” What the actual fuck?  

 

Draco closed his eyes and drove out the noises of the speaker, one Kingsley Shacklebolt, as he listed the Interrogators. He didn’t want to know. They were blaming him for the shit at the Manor. They were blaming him for everything at the Manor. It made his blood boil and he knew he needed to calm down, so he kept his eyes closed and didn’t open them again until the man was done listing each member of the Wizengamot. 

 

“Witnesses for the Defense,” the dark man continued and Draco sat up, leaning in. What?! What defense? “Harry James Potter, Hermione Jean Granger, Luna Lovegood, Narcissa Malfoy.” 

 

“What?!” He had meant to roar the word, let it out as a shout, but it had caught in his dry throat and croaked it’s way out instead. 

 

“These four people have come forward as witnesses for your defense,” Kingsley repeated, his face unreadable as Draco stared him down. There was the sound of a door opening and chairs scraping behind him. He turned to face the noise, craning his neck as he couldn’t properly turn with his arm shackled to the chair. 

 

“Mum.” His voice cracked again as he saw her. She was clean, but she was dressed in a demure set of robes, one that he had never seen before. Her once beautiful and healthy hair was falling limply around her face, and her eyes were hollow. 

 

“Draco,” she returned, her own voice full of pain.

 

“Did you …” 

 

“This is not the time for reunions,” Kingsley continued. Draco turned to look at Potter and Granger and Lovegood for a single second each. Potter and Granger avoided his gaze, while Looney smiled at him reassuringly. What the fuck were they doing here?  

 

Draco turned back to the Minister, still confused. “Harry James Potter for the defense has requested the right to speak at the beginning of this trial. I accept and approve this request. The floor is yours, Mr. Potter.” 

 

Draco heard scraping behind him and a throat clear. Potter walked towards the center of the room, not looking at Draco at all. “I did not decide lighlty come here today. As you realize, I have only spoken in defense of two participants in these trials and after today, I will not speak in defense of anyone else. I spoke to you last week of Narcissa Malfoy and the incredible kindness that she showed to me. I told you that I would not be standing here in this room if she had not lied for me, risking her life. I told you that she was redeemable, and you saw fit to give her that opportunity.” Potter had saved her. Potter had saved his mother. He felt a weight lift from his chest and his body sunk further into the stone. She was safe. No matter his own outcome, she was safe. 

 

“Today, I come before you as Harry James Potter, Chosen One. A title I deplore, a responsibility I did not ask for, and beg that you look at this man and see in him what I have seen. I will not contest all of your charges, for I believe them to mostly be true. Draco Malfoy did become a Death Eater. He did attempt to murder Dumbledore. He did let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts one year ago, but he is not responsible for Dumbledore's death.”

 

“Albus Dumbledore was a complicated, incredible man, who never told any one person every truth. He was dying as the result of a Horcrux. He knew that Draco Malfoy had been ordered to kill him and as his Headmaster and caregiver did nothing to stop or protect him until Draco had let the Death Eaters into the castle. I was there that night. I saw him with Dumbledore. Dumbledore offered him immunity, and Draco was going to take it. He lowered his wand. He was ready to come to our side, to give up everything he had ever been taught, but that chance was stolen from him.” Draco’s mouth fell open. Potter was asking them to … 

 

“Though it was perhaps accidental, Draco saved us all that night. He disarmed Dumbledore, allowing me to control the Elder Wand after I, in turn, disarmed him. Voldemort is dead because of his actions.” Draco’s body leaned forward, trying to see Potter’s face, but the wizard had his back firmly turned at Draco. 

 

“When we were brought to Malfoy Manor this past spring, Draco Malfoy recognized us instantly. I have no doubt in my mind that he knew I was Harry Potter, and he held my life in his hands. He delayed the calling of Voldemort and saved my life, so that I could carry on to be your Chosen One.” Potter spat the last three words as if each person in this room had personally selected him for the role, and he believed they were each truly vile for it. 

 

“As for the imprisonment and torture of innocents in his home... You were not there. You did not see what I have seen. What Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood have seen. There was no denying Voldemort. There was no casting him out of your home. Draco Malfoy did what he could to protect himself and his mother. He was a child being forced to make adult decisions. We were all children forced to fight a war, and I will not stand for you locking him away and robbing our society of a man who could be redeemed, who could be changed, who, when it really mattered, dropped his wand and could not murder someone. Who, when it really needed to be done, lied for me, and saved every single one of us.” Potter's voice was hard and cold. Draco had never seen him this way before. Never watched him so sure, so clear about his words. He was terrifying, if truth be told. 

 

“Draco Malfoy is not my friend. He has never been kind or giving or generous to me, and I have nearly killed him myself in the past. We have both made mistakes, but his have landed him here and mine have landed me a position in the Auror Department. I challenge you to see that he does not deserve to spend the rest of his life rotting in Azkaban because he had the unfortunate luck to be born into a family of Pureblood purists. Do the right thing, and give him a chance to make his own decisions.” 

 

Draco stared, open-mouthed, at the unruly black hair before him as Harry Fucking Potter tried to save his life. He didn’t understand. It didn’t make any sense. It didn’t even begin to make sense. What the hell was he playing at? As Potter walked back to his seat without even a glance at Draco, murmurs of conversation struck up around the room. 

 

Kingsley cleared his throat loudly. “We may continue this trial as anticipated if necessary, but I have an alternate solution for this case. I have heard the evidence and pleas of Harry Potter, a man I trust and look up to as a hero and a leader in our world, and a friend. Taking his word into consideration, I suggest a sentence of Probation for Draco Malfoy to be served for one year. This probationary period would be lived out at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where Draco Malfoy will enroll to complete his interrupted seventh year of schooling. Draco Malfoy will be required to take Muggle Studies during this year and must pass the Muggle Studies N.E.W.T. at the end of the year. He will be prohibited from using his wand for any reason outside of classwork, and his wand will be checked weekly by the Headmistress for any signs of magic outside of the classwork. In one year, we will reconvene to hear testimony of the efforts made by Mr. Malfoy to become a productive and healthy member of our society. The end of his probation or readmittance to Azkaban will be entirely up to him and his actions.”

 

Draco listened to the man telling him that he was sending him back to Hogwarts and his heart thudded wildly in his chest. They were … They might just let him go. “Mr. Malfoy, do you find this plan acceptable and yourself capable of carrying it out.” Draco stared at him. What the hell other option did he have? 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“All those in favor of the plan laid out before us for Draco Malfoy.” He closed his eyes again. He couldn't bear to look. “All against.” There was a rustle and sounds of movement. “This plan for probation has passed. Mr. Malfoy should be taken to retrieve his belongings and brought to Hogwarts immediately. He will not be permitted to stay in his mother's home until the end of his probationary period.” Kingsley stood, his words still hanging in the air, and left the room. Draco felt the restraints around his arms and legs shake, loosen, and fall away. He also stood, confused and afraid to turn around. His mother, however, didn’t seem to have the same issue. She flew into his arms, wrapping her own tightly around him. 

 

“Draco,” she sobbed into his shoulder. He clutched onto her, breathing in her clean scent, so different from his own smell of filth and despair. 

 

“Mum.” He choked on the word as a sob rose up from his dry throat. Draco felt a hand on his elbow. It was time to go. 

  
“You have to pass that class and stay out of trouble,” his mother told him quickly. “Don't worry about me.” She pulled back from him and the hand at his elbow was pulling at him. He had let it move him a few steps before he realized he should say something to Potter. He spun around to face the black-haired wizard, but he was already gone, as were Hermione and Luna. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: The Request  
Monday, July 13, 1998

 

Hermione walked into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place three days later to find Ginny reading the Daily Prophet, and Harry making bacon and eggs. She loved seeing them together, and she hated it. She loved that Harry had Ginny. Harry was the one person in the world Hermione could depend on, and he deserved to be happy. She truly couldn't thank Ginny enough for being there to hold him at night when Hermione knew he wasn't sleeping. She worried about him, mostly about what was going to happen when she and Ginny left. How was he going to cope if Ron didn't pull himself together and start being there? She hated the reminder that she should have someone. She should have Ron eating breakfast with her, and kissing her softly when he thought noone was looking, and pulling her in to snuggle him in the quiet moments before they fell asleep.

 

“Morning.” Harry smiled at her, and she walked over to steal a piece of the bacon from him. 

 

“Morning,” she replied and moved over to the table to sit by Ginny. “Anything?” she asked, her eyes on the Prophet. 

 

“Yes. They finally reported on Malfoy's trial.” 

 

“How was it?” Hermione didn't like thinking about the trial. She didn't like thinking about the man, child, boy, whatever he was, chained in the chair at the center of the room. He had been filthy, his hair matted to his head, his clothes stunk, and she wondered when the last time he'd eaten real food had been. He was thin and his cheeks had been sunken when he had turned back to see them sitting behind him. 

 

“Harry is our hero, Malfoy will surely be reformed if Harry, our hero, says so,” Ginny mocked and rolled her eyes. Hermione knew that Ginny still hated the Prophet just as much as she did. They used Harry to sell papers, and they always had, but sell them they did, and the girls couldn't stop reading. They felt they needed to know what was coming, what people were being told. Harry tended to take a more hands off approach to the Prophet these days, and his only news was what Ginny and Hermione discussed in front of him. 

 

“Well, I suppose it's better than when they hated him,” Hermione admitted and bit at her food. 

 

“Yeah, well, it's a bit much. I mean, we’re dating, and I don't even like him this much.” She tapped the paper dismissively, and Hermione snorted. Living with Ginny was certainly an experience. Technically Ginny didn't live at Grimmauld place, but they all knew she did. When Harry had told her that Molly was upset about it with concern etched across his face, Hermione had told him there was no point getting between the two witches about it. Ginny was going to do what she wanted, and Molly was going to hate it. 

 

“Thanks, Gin,” Harry told his girlfriend, feigning hurt feelings. 

 

“Well,” Ginny raised her hands and shrugged. “Maybe you should learn to put the seat down in the loo in the middle of the night, and I might hero worship you.” 

 

Harry just shook his head and waved his wand to move three plates over to the table, following with a cup of tea for himself. “I rather like you not hero worshipping me.” Hermione considered reminding the couple of the years when Ginny had been a lovesick pre-teen whose affections had surely been close to hero worship, but decided against it. Neither one of her friends was the same child they had been back then. 

 

“Good, because it's not going to happen.” She leaned forward and kissed his nose, before starting on her breakfast. 

 

“Have you heard from Ron?” Hermione asked, no longer able to hold back the question she asked too often. 

 

“No.” Harry furrowed his brow. Hermione knew he was just as worried about Ron as she was. They tended to avoided talking about him except to check if the other had heard from him. The answer was usually no. 

 

“I don't think he's been ‘round the house much,” Ginny confessed. Hermione couldn't help but wonder where in the world Ron was, if he wasn't with them at Grimmauld, and he wasn't with his family at the Burrow. 

 

“You aren't round the Burrow much,” Harry told her with a grin. “How would you know?” 

 

“I went to grab some clothes yesterday and George told me.” The Weasley children had all taken turns staying at the Burrow with Molly once Arthur had returned to work. Ginny took her turn, but it nearly always ended in tense silence that stretched until her father returned home from work. 

 

“So, where is he all the time?” Hermione asked, and Ginny shrugged. 

 

“George didn't know.” 

 

“Well, that doesn't sound good.” Harry looked over at Hermione's worried face. “I'll find him today and check in with him.” He squeezed her hand, and she nodded. 

 

“Thanks, Harry.” 

 

“No problem.” They ate in silence for a few minutes, each of them lost in thought about Ron, until an owl scratched at the window, and Ginny jumped up to let it in. 

 

“It's Hogwarts,” she told them, recognizing the letters. She took them from the bird and handed one to Hermione, who pulled it open. Inside with her normal list of supplies was a note from McGonagall. 

 

Dear Hermione, 

 

I hope that I can convince you to join me at Hogwarts this afternoon for lunch. If you are able, please Floo to the Headmistress’ office. I will have the Floo Network allow you through between 11:30 and 11:45. 

 

Looking forward to seeing you soon,  
Minerva

 

Minerva. Hermione had never received a more informal note from a Professor. It made her anxious. “Professor McGonagall wants me to come for lunch.” 

 

“She's given me the team and made me a Prefect,” Ginny told them holding up the badges. 

 

“What do you think she wants?” Harry leaned across the table and took the letter from Hermione. 

 

“I have no idea,” Hermione admitted and watched Harry’s eyebrow raise. 

 

“Minerva?” 

 

“What?” Ginny pulled the letter from his hand and read through it. “Minerva? Since when have you and McGonagall been on a first name basis.” 

 

“I guess since today.” Hermione looked over her book list. 

 

“I wonder what the school looks like,” Ginny mused. Hermione could tell she was trying to keep her voice steady, but the thought had also frequently crossed Hermione's mind. 

 

“Well, she's had a lot of help,” Harry told them. “Kingsley has half the ministry there every day.” 

 

“I hope it’s mostly done.” Hermione tried not to remember the way the castle had looked the last time she had seen it, or the bodies lying on the stone. She hated thinking about it. She hated remembering all of the funerals they had attended in the two weeks following the battle. It had been … well, she couldn't even think of a word. Haunting, maybe. That didn’t seem to be dark enough. 

 

“Me too,” Ginny agreed. 

 

“What are you two doing today?” Hermione asked them, trying to change the subject. 

 

“Going to see Teddy,” Harry told her. Ginny reached over and brushed her thumb over his knuckles. They loved Teddy, but Hermione knew that it brought up a lot of pain for Harry. The Lupin funeral had been hard for them all. Nearly everyone had been crying while a solemn Harry held Teddy next to Andromeda Tonks, who had been shaking too badly to carry the baby.

 

“Give him a kiss for me,” she told them, as she stood. She waved her wand at her plate, cleaning it, and then sent it back to the cabinet. 

 

“You could come for a little while,” Harry suggested. 

 

“No.” She smiled, but shook her head. “I'm going to get some reading done.” She saw Harry and Ginny both frown, but she ignored them as she turned to leave the kitchen. 

 

XXX

 

Draco set the clothes he had brought into his bathroom down on the sink and turned the taps to start the water. It was the perfect temperature. He didn't even need to check. He pulled his shirt off and watched as his scarred chest was exposed to the mirror in front of him. He was still unbelievably thin, but his skin was clean. The mark on his forearm was a light red now. It had been that color for a fortnight and was beginning to scab. He was desperate for it to go away, but he knew that it would probably not. He had grown up with a Death Eater father and his mark had faded, but never gone away. 

 

Draco brushed at the skin softly so that he would not rub away the scabs, and then dropped his hands to his pants. He pushed them down and climbed into the water. It scalded his skin as he stepped inside, just the way he liked it. He had showered three times that first day, twice the next two days. He couldn't feel clean enough. Every crevice of his body had been caked with grime when he had arrived at Hogwarts that first day. McGonagall had met him at the door to the castle and brought him straight to his room and given him clean clothes and told him to shower and come to her office. He had never loved McGonagall before for anything in his life, but he had loved her for that.

 

Draco leaned against the wall and felt the water fall down his back, washing him, cleansing him, calming him. It was real. He was really here, at Hogwarts. He wasn't in Azkaban anymore. He wasn't a prisoner anymore, well, not in the same way at least. He could handle being locked in Hogwarts. He could handle having his own room and a shower at his disposal whenever he needed it, and a kitchen full of food and house elves eager to share it with him. He could handle a library full of books containing knowledge he hadn't yet acquired.

 

He still had trouble at night. He would lay down to sleep, and he would remember those first few weeks in Azkaban, before the Dementors left. He would remember the feeling of minutes, hours, days, weeks, trickling by as he felt nothing but a hollow, terrifying, emptiness. When they had left, it had gotten better slowly. He had gradually been able to remember how to feel something other than empty, but he was still a prisoner. He was still locked in the same dirty cell with no answers to his questions and no hope of ever leaving. 

 

But, he had left. He was here. He was rubbing soap deliberately into his skin, washing away the dirt he could still feel on him three days after he had washed it all away. McGonagall had been pretty easy on him that first day. She'd told him not to leave the grounds and to behave until the rest of the students arrived. She’d said they would meet again soon but she was busy. He'd realized just how busy in the days that followed. Every time he left his room, which was only to go get more books from the library or to get food from the kitchens, he would have to work hard to avoid the crews of witches and wizards restoring the castle and the wards of protection around it. 

 

He wasn't ready to see other people. He wasn't ready to have to talk about any of it. The war. The things that happened before the war. His stay at Azkaban. His father. Potter. The things he'd seen. The things he'd done. He saw enough of it in his nightmares. He didn't need it during the day. He needed to bury himself in books and pretend that everything was fine. He was fine. Reality would hit soon enough when the school was full of students who hated him, but for now, he was the only one, and he was going to take advantage of the quiet. 

 

XXX

 

Hermione stepped out of the fireplace and brushed at her jeans without really thinking about it. “Hermione.” Professor McGonagall was sitting behind her desk. She smiled at her student, and the large portrait of Albus Dumbledore behind her smiled as well, but did not speak. 

 

“Hello, Professor McGonagall.” She crossed the circular room and sat down in the chair offered to her. Though the room hadn't changed much. Hermione assumed that the Headmistress had simply been too busy as the desk itself had been buried beneath neat stacks of parchment. 

 

The professor followed her eyes and sighed. “The room needs work, but not nearly as much as the rest of the school. It will have to wait. Besides, I don't … it will be difficult to get rid of Severus’ and Albus’ things.” She was speaking to her like an old friend, like a confidant, and Hermione didn't know how to respond. “How have you been?” 

 

“Oh … uhm ... “ She thought about her visit with her parents to remove their memory charm. They had been livid and relieved, but in the end Hermione hadn't been able to move back home with them. That wasn't her home anymore. She thought about the nights she spent trying not to listen to Harry and Ginny make love, as she cried in her own bed wondering where in the world Ron was. She thought of the books, the piles of books, she had read to keep her mind busy. She thought of seeing Draco Malfoy, his hair nearly pasted onto his head with dirt, his clothes hanging off his skinny frame, and listening to Harry speak as he convinced the Wizengamot to send him here to this place. “Fine.” 

 

“Hmmm.” The Headmistress looked over her spectacles at Hermione, her mouth pursed. “I doubt that. I heard that you attended Draco’s trial.” 

 

“Oh,” Hermione let out in surprise. “Yes.” 

 

“You were there to testify in his defense.” 

 

Hermione remembered her conflicting emotions on this decision easily, because they were still bubbling, still festering under the surface. “Yes.” 

 

“And you didn't need to. Harry was able to convince them.” 

 

“That is correct, Professor.” 

 

“Minerva is fine, Hermione. You can call me Professor in class, but you are a fully grown witch, my dear.” Hermione's cheeks turned pink at the thought of calling her Professor by her first name. “Do you believe Mr. Malfoy capable of changing his ways?” McGonagall asked, her face a blank canvas. Hermione had no idea what she was after. 

 

“I … honestly … I don’t know.” Hermione wanted to say yes, but Malfoy had been unpredictable to say the least. She never knew what to expect from him. Hermione liked order and people who acted the way they were supposed to. 

 

“That is understandable.” The older witch shuffled some of the papers on her desk and pulled out a piece of parchment and handed it to Hermione. “What do you think of this?” 

 

Hermione let her eyes fall down the parchment as she took in the contents. “Is this an application?” 

 

“Yes. One of the few I received. I need to hire Transfiguration and Muggle Studies Professors. The Transfiguration is easy. I tried a few of my more promising former students and one accepted. She’ll be teaching the first through fourth years this year and then we’ll see how she does.” 

 

“So, this is for Muggle Studies,” Hermione stated. “Benjamin Crowley. He was a Ravenclaw.” Hermione remembered him vaguely. They had crossed paths in the library a few times. 

 

“Ben received an outstanding on his N.E.W.T.s, but he's only been away from Hogwarts for two years.” McGonagall pursed her lips at this. 

 

“Do you have any other options?” Hermione asked, unsure why the Headmistress would be considering someone so young for the position for any other reason. 

 

“Unfortunately, No one else more qualified seems to want the job.” 

 

“So, you're hiring him?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“So what exactly is it you need me to tell you, Pr-Minerva.” She forced the word past her teeth with some stumbling. 

 

“You were at the trial. You heard Draco Malfoy’s sentencing?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“I would like to know if you believe Ben to be capable of, on top of teaching for the first time, teaching Draco Malfoy enough about Muggles in one year to pass the exam he will need to take.” McGonagall eyed her closely. 

 

“Oh.” Hermione looked down at the application. “I rather doubt it.” 

 

“As do I, which puts me in quite a predicament. I need Draco to do well. I want him to leave here and be a beacon of reform, Hermione. I want him to lead us into a new future, where we can work side by side and put this hogwash behind us. Slytherin house needs a new beginning. In order for that to happen, I need Draco to pass his Muggle Studies exam at the end of the year.” 

 

“What … does ... what do you want me to do?” Hermione asked uneasily. 

 

“I would like you to make sure it happens.” 

 

“How?” Hermione set the parchment back into McGonagall’s hand. She had a feeling she already knew the answer. 

 

“I would like you to tutor him, starting immediately. You would return to Hogwarts as soon as possible and begin.” 

 

Hermione sighed and put her head down in her hands. Flashes of gray eyes and pain while she sobbed his name, pleading with him to help her. Shit. “Isn't there anyone else?” 

 

“No one else that I trust who would be willing.” Hermione heard her moving around her desk, and then the older woman was kneeling down next to her with a hand on her back. “Hermione, I know that this could be a disaster. I know it could be painful, but I wouldn't ask if I didn't need your help. I would do it myself if I had the time.” 

 

“I'll do it,” Hermione told her softly, sitting up. “It will need to be on a trial basis at first. If it goes well, we can continue.” The older witch breathed a sigh of relief and stood. 

 

“Thank you, Hermione.” 

 

XXX

 

After she left Hogwarts, Hermione Flooed to Diagon Alley to replenish her supplies for the year and purchase her new books. She couldn't help but stare at the shops that were still unopened and wonder how long it would be before the street would return to its original splendor. The atmosphere was clearly happier, people were smiling and stopping to chat with friends, but behind that it was clear that the war had touched this street. She finished her shopping as quickly as possible and returned to Grimmauld Place. 

 

Once home, Hermione emptied her trunk and began to sort through the old contents and the new supplies, organizing them neatly into her trunk. Some of the supplies were harder to pack than others. When she came across her dittany bottle she fell onto her bed next to the trunk, pulled her knees up to her chin, and sobbed for several long minutes as she remembered Ron after he had been splinched, Harry’s bite from Nagini, and the burns they had all suffered at Gringotts. She managed to pull herself together just before she heard movement outside her door. She waved her wand to clean her face, set the dittany in her trunk, and went to open the door. 

 

“How was your meeting?” Harry asked her and then his eyes moved behind her to her open trunk. “What are you doing?” 

 

“I'm packing. Professor McGonagall has asked me to come to Hogwarts early.” 

 

“Why?” His piercing green eyes that knew her far too well moved back to hers, and she looked at the buttons on his shirt to avoid them. 

 

“She wants me to teach Malfoy about Muggle Studies.” 

 

“What? Are you okay with that?” He wasn't shouting, and he didn't sound angry. He was genuinely concerned. He had known how hard her decision was about the trial. He had known that she was very conflicted about what to think of Malfoy. 

 

“I don't know. I told her I would try it, and if it doesn't work out then it doesn't work out.” 

 

“You're a good person, Hermione. He’ll be lucky to have you.” Harry pulled her into his arms, and she rested her head against his shoulder. She let him hold her against him, and she felt safe. Harry was her family. “I saw Ron,” he said quietly. 

 

Hermione pulled back and met his eyes this time. “Did you talk?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“And?” she asked, afraid of the answer. 

 

Harry shook his head. “He wouldn't tell me where he's going.” 

 

“Of course not.” 

 

“He seems okay, other than being, just … I don't know.” 

 

“Like us?” Hermione offered.

 

“Yeah.” Harry leaned against the door frame. “One day we’ll be normal again. We’ll all be able to get through the day without … feeling like this.” 

 

“I really hope so.” 

 

“It's all just really fresh. We need time,” Harry assured her. 

 

“What are you going to do without me and Ginny?” She tried to sound lighthearted, but the question truly worried her. 

 

“I don't know. Force Ron to move in, I guess.” Harry forced a grin. 

 

“You’d better. You’re going to need help cleaning up this house.”

 

“I think I’m going to build a new one instead,” he admitted. 

 

“Really?” She had never heard him mention this before, but she supposed it made sense. Grimmauld Place was everything they were trying to escape right now. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“I think that would be good for you,” she told him, and he nodded in agreement. 

 

“So, you’re going to be leaving tonight?” 

 

She nodded and bit her lip. “I’ll write you all the time, and you’d better write me, too. And send photos of Teddy.” Tears were brimming in her eyes as she realized for the first time just how hard it was going to be to be at Hogwarts without Harry and Ron. 

 

“I will. I promise.” He moved towards her and pulled her back to hug him again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Meetings

 

Wednesday, July 15th, 1998

 

Hermione awoke with a sharp scream, scratching at her neck with her hands, trying to move a blade that didn't exist away from her skin. She thrashed in her sheets as her breath came in short, shallow gasps, the darkness adding to her confusion. Slowly, her fingers stopped, resting on her chest as her gasps turned to sobs, and tears began to fall down her face. She was safe. She was in Hogwarts. 

 

Bellatrix is dead. 

 

Bellatrix is dead. 

 

Bellatrix is dead. 

 

She grabbed her forearm as the mantra repeated over and over in her head and in her whispered words to the room. 

 

Dead. 

 

Dead. 

 

Dead. 

 

Hermione let her head fall forward onto her bent knees. Her hands moved around her neck to rub at her shoulders. Her heart was still beating wildly, so she focused on slowing her breathing, trying to calm her nerves, trying to battle the part of her that was still wanting to fight against an invisible enemy. Minutes felt like hours as she waited for her body to return to normal, but finally she felt safe enough to lift her head. It was still dark outside, but light was just starting to break through. There was no point trying to get back to sleep. She knew there would be no more rest for her. She never could get back to sleep when the nightmares were about Bellatrix. 

 

Instead, she climbed out of her four poster and slid her feet into slippers waiting on the floor. She pulled her wand off the night table and padded across the room to her closet. She grabbed clothes for the day and passed into her bathroom. 

 

Hers. 

 

The room was hers. 

 

The bathroom was hers. 

 

It was so strange to have so much privacy at Hogwarts. Her memories of this place were of sharing her dorm with giggling girls who loved to sleep in and primp in the bathroom while talking about boys and music and famous wizards. There had been a time when Hermione had longed to be part of them, to feel like one of the girls, but that time was long gone, lost somewhere between the screams of horrified Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup and Cedric’s death in her fourth year. Now, Hermione was grateful for the single bed in the center of the room. She didn’t have to worry about waking roommates with her screams or annoying them by keeping the light on all hours of the night while she tried to avoid sleep or thinking about Ron by reading. 

 

As she walked into the pouring warmth of the shower, Hermione felt the tense knots in her back soften slightly. Some days she felt like her time under the water was the only real time of her day that she got to turn her brain off and stop feeling, but today that was not the case. She was meeting with Draco Malfoy this morning. Professor McGonagall had left her a note the night before that Draco was expecting her in the library at nine. Hermione hadn’t seen him yet.

 

McGonagall had walked her to the Eighth Years Common Room upon her arrival. The room had been warm and inviting, decorated in soft browns and tans with splashes of color from all four houses. There were several couches, a fireplace, and a chess table waiting for the rest of the returning students. On the wall of the circular common room, eight closed doors led off to bedrooms. McGonagall pointed out “Mr. Malfoy’s room,” and then walked her into her own bedroom. It was decorated in the red and gold she was used to, and it felt like coming home. Hermione had held back a sob as a lump had formed in her throat, and McGonagall had left her alone. Hermione hadn’t left her room the rest of the night.

 

The next day, she had gone down to breakfast in the Great Hall. She was the only one there, but as she sat down uneasily, a plate of food had appeared in front of her. She had eaten quickly, feeling wrong being alone in the place. Unwelcome memories flooded in as she tried not to cry and shoved her food into her mouth. She left the room as quickly as she had come, passing several groups of witches and wizards arguing as they attempted to work or stared at plans on parchment. Hermione had ignored them, trying not to look too hard at the gouges still carved in the walls or the work the other wizards were doing.

 

She had made her way to the library and hidden deep in the books, trying not to listen too hard to the unfamiliar noises of work around the school. There she had remained until the sun was gone. She hadn’t even eaten again. She hadn’t wanted to disturb the house elves again.

 

Hermione climbed out of the shower reluctantly. She didn't want this day. She didn't want this responsibility. She was regretting her decision to help Professor McGonagall out by tutoring Malfoy in Muggle Studies, but there was nothing to be done about it. She wanted to crawl into bed again and grab a book and hide. That was what her life had come down to, hiding in bed and reading. 

 

She wrapped a large fluffy towel around her skin, drying it as she went, trying to calm her thudding heart with steady breathing. She thought about the book she had been reading the night before about the Wolfsbane Potion. She tried to remember the process, to repeat it in her head, but her mind slipped to the dirty image of Draco Malfoy chained to a chair. 

 

She dropped the towel on the counter and gripped it with her fingers tightly. Her mind was slipping from courtroom to Manor, taking her deep into things she didn't want to remember, the things that had woken her up scratching at her throat. “Get it together, Hermione.”

 

She’d had Ron. Every night on the run he had been there, holding her hand, comforting her, but now he was gone. Something had happened, something had changed, and she was alone, so damn alone, and he was gone, and no one was there to keep her grounded. 

 

She pushed her body away from the sink and forced herself to go through the motions of getting dressed. She had made a commitment and it was time to get it over with. 

 

XXX 

 

Wednesday, July 15th, 1998

 

He was sitting at a table in the Library, and, for once, Granger seemed not to be here. As far as he had been able to tell, she wasn't in the castle, but McGonagall insisted he come here and meet her. Hermione Granger tutoring Draco Malfoy about Muggles. Never in a million years would he have imagined such a turn of events. He had unpacked his bag when he had arrived and chosen a table amongst the Muggle Studies shelves. He assumed she would want to use many books because they seemed to be her favorite things. 

 

He'd been sitting there with his copy of Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles book on his lap, his feet on the table top, for twenty minutes before he heard her approaching. He swung his legs down, put the book on the table, and smoothed his trousers. She turned the corner and came into view. A lump formed in his throat at the sight of her. She was skinnier than she had been during their sixth year, but looked healthier than she had at the Manor or the Battle. She'd lost a noticeable amount of weight over the past year. It made her frame seem almost too small. Her eyes were dark, and he imagined she slept about as well as he did. She was wearing a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, and a blue cardigan that covered the word carved into her arm. 

 

Mudblood. 

 

He cringed. Her face fell. 

 

“I can just go.” She had stopped walking at the movement. Her voice was soft and unsteady, a tremor ran through him at the sound. Who was this witch? What had Granger done with the girl he knew? He imagined she’d left her back on the floor of his Manor with the blood and tears she'd lost there. 

 

“No, I'm sorry.” The word sounded strange in his mouth, and he had to push it past his teeth. Granger stared at him, her lip rolling under her teeth as she considered his apology. “It wasn't … I was just thinking about something.” 

 

Hermione pulled her arms into her body subconsciously, and he wondered if she had guessed at his thoughts or not. Either way, she decided to take the final steps towards him and pulled out the chair across the table to sit down. 

 

He watched her pull her belongings out of her bag and tried to think of something to say, but he couldn’t. He wanted to say something about the trial, but he didn’t. He just sat there, waiting, his eyes flicking between her, the shelves of books, and the text open in front of him. 

 

Finally, Hermione opened her own copy of the book and looked up at him. “So,” she said in that same tepid voice as before. 

 

“So,” he responded. Something was wrong with her. She was as broken as he was. He could see it easily enough. Why was she here? Why wasn't she with her friends getting fixed and put back together?

 

“I, um, guess we’ll start with the basics and work our way up from there.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

She wasn't really meeting his eyes. She was looking at his hands, his book, his ear, but not his eyes. “What do you know about Muggle Currency?” 

 

“Uh …” Draco looked down at the book. He'd read it. He knew he did, but now staring down at it, he couldn't remember what it had said. “It's different than ours,” he finally mumbled. 

 

She actually chuckled quietly at that. Draco looked up and her lips had curled up slightly, and her eyes met his for the first time. He tried to smile, tried to be reassuring. He needed her help. He needed to pass this class. He needed to be back with his mother. Granger was his ticket to that. She was the only way he could do this. He wasn't fool enough to think that he could erase a lifetime of lies and replace them with truth on his own in nine short months. He needed her. He didn't really like that. He would have rather relied on nearly anyone else but this girl. The thought made his knee bounce in irritation. 

 

“True.” She bit her lip again and cocked her head to the side, observing him. “Do you know anything about Muggles?” she asked. “I'm not trying to be rude. I'm just not convinced this is the best way for you to learn.” She said the second part quickly, before he could respond to her question. 

 

“Uh … not really.” This wasn't exactly true. He knew plenty of things about Muggles. He had grown up learning about them actually, but he didn't think Granger was asking if he knew the twelve ways a Muggle could steal magic or the four tests for proving someone a Mudblood. He couldn't imagine she had any interest in knowing his intense knowledge of the sacred twenty eight and the hours he had spent learning about the torture and deaths of the wizards who were dumb enough to forget what sacred meant. He was sure she didn't even know about the texts he had been shown with photographs of Muggles cut open with magic, their bodies dissected as Wizards searched for and found weakness in them. Their blood was dirty and should be spilled often. Their brains were simple and should not be used. They lacked logic, cunning, strength, and knowledge. They were the bottom of the barrel, and it was his job to stand on them while he enjoyed the view from the top. She wouldn't want to know that he had grown up receiving not one magical education, but two. 

 

“Hmmm.” She looked away from him now, her mind turning. Her brain working. Her logic sliding bolts into place. A mudblood, smartest witch of her age, the perfect contradiction of everything he had been taught. 

 

“What?” he asked finally, not able to wait anymore.

 

“If you're willing, I think we should do practical lessons.”

 

“Errr.” He wasn't exactly sure what a practical Muggle Studies lesson would entail. “I'm not allowed to leave the castle.” 

 

“Oh, I know. I was just thinking, you need to learn things like using money, shopping, baking, cooking, cleaning. Those are all things you would learn quicker by doing them yourself.” 

 

“Where would we do that?” he asked. He tried to imagine baking or shopping with Granger. It didn’t seem to make sense. Even this, sitting at this table and having an actual conversation with her seemed odd.

 

“I'm sure we could figure something out. Professor McGonagall is set on this working.” She was staring through him now, and he could tell her mind was miles away, probably already planning new lessons. 

 

“Alright,” he told her, trying not to think about what he was agreeing to. 

 

XXX 

 

Friday, July 17th, 1998

 

Ron was outside of Lavender’s hospital room. She had been crying, but she had stopped. He wanted to go in and talk to her, but he didn't think she would want to see him, and he didn't know what he would say. He had heard her crying as he had approached the door, and his head had fallen back against the wall. He sunk down, his knees bent, his hair in his hands as he rested elbows on knees. He had sat there listening to her softly cry until she had slowly gained control, and then he had listen to her shuffle in her bed. She couldn't get up yet. They weren't letting her. He didn't know why he kept coming. He should be with Harry and Hermione and Ginny and his Mother, but something inside of that room was calling to him, taunting him. 

 

That is how he was sitting when the shoes stopped in front of him. He looked up to see a man in healer's robes staring down at him. He was holding two cups of coffee. Ron pushed himself up quickly. “I'll go,” he said quietly, not wanting to risk Lavender hearing him. 

 

“No.” The Healer handed him the second cup. “Walk with me.”

 

Ron took the offered cup and fell into step next to the man as he began to walk away from Lavender’s room. “Mr. Weasley, do you realize you come here every day?” 

 

“Yes,” he replied. What kind of idiotic question was that?

 

“And have you seen an abundance of visitors come and go in that time.” 

 

Ron frowned. “No.” He'd seen a few people, some of their classmates had stopped by once or twice, but mostly it was him, standing vigil outside, disappearing at the first sign of anyone he knew. Her parents came for two hours every night, and he was always sure to be gone before they arrived. 

 

“She needs a friend Mr. Weasley, something to hold her here, something to give her a fight.” 

 

“Errr.” Ron saw where this was going then. “I'm no good for that, for her.” He took a long drink of the coffee even though it was still a few degrees too hot. 

 

“Often we find that the things we're most reluctant to do are the very things we should be doing.” They had reached the end of the hallway, and the Healer turned back towards the room. 

 

“I don't … I don't know.” 

 

“Look at it this way, Mr. Weasley.” He clapped Ron on the shoulder with his free hand as he walked. “You can sit out here and be alone and miserable for weeks, maybe months, while she's here, or you can go in there and find out if she wants you here. If she does, great. If she doesn't, you can leave and stop making my wing so fucking miserable all the time.” The man smiled at him, but Ron knew there was some truth to his words. 

 

“Okay.” He nodded and looked ahead at Lavender’s room. 

 

“Great, let's go say hello.” 

 

“Wait, now?” Ron stopped and stared at the wizard. 

 

“Well, I'm going in to check on her now. You could join me.” The Healer didn't stop walking so Ron had to move fast to catch up. His mind was racing, trying to determine if this was really a good idea. He'd been avoiding this moment so steadily, but the man was right. He either needed to go in there and talk to her or go home and move on with his life. He couldn't keep living in this limbo, hiding from Lavender and hiding from his friends and family. 

 

“Okay,” Ron said, and he saw the Healer smile as he turned into the doorway. He pushed the door open all the way, and his smile broadened. 

 

“Hello, Ms. Brown,” he said cheerfully.

 

“Oh, hi, Healer Dawns.” Lavender's voice was dry and croaking. 

 

“I found a friend out in the hallway for you.” 

 

“Oh,” Lavender sounded almost disappointed at this. 

 

Ron stepped into the room, taking the few steps to get far enough in to see her. His eyes found hers quickly. He watched them grow in shock and surprise, and he was sure that his were doing the same. 

 

“Ron.” The word escaped her lips as a whisper, so soft he barely heard it over the pounding of his heart in his ears. 

 

Her beautiful curling hair was pulled back in a messy pony tail. The line down her cheek was nearly healed now, but her neck was heavily bandaged and held in place. She looked pale and thin beneath the gown she was wearing, and her eyes were puffy from crying. He hated himself in that moment for letting that happen to her. He stepped forward without thinking, walking right to the side of her bed and taking one of her hands. Lavender stared down, her mouth open, at his hand on hers. 

 

“I'm so sorry.” Ron barely registered the sound of the door clicking shut behind him. 

 

“Ron, what … what are you doing here?” She was still staring at his hand. 

 

“I …” He looked at their hands too, and pulled his away. “I can go.” 

 

“No,” she said quickly. “Don't, I just … I didn't think you would come.” 

 

“This is all my fault,” he told her, his face falling into desperation as she reached for his hand again. 

 

“Ron, how is this your fault?” 

 

“If I … if I had been with you … I could have stopped this.” 

 

“That is stupid,” she told him frankly. “It didn’t have anything to do with you.” She squeezed her fingers around his, and he fell into the empty chair beside her. “I’m glad you're here,” she told him quietly.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: 

 

Monday, July 20th, 1998 

 

Molly Weasley was making dinner. She was always doing something. She never stopped moving these days. It was as if she believed that if she just kept cooking, or cleaning, or knitting, or nagging then she would never have to think about Fred. That wasn’t true. Ginny had held her mother as she cried just the same as everyone else. Ginny knew that as soon as she hit her bed that night, the tears would start. 

 

Ginny hated it. She knew it was horrible, that maybe it made her a terrible daughter, but she hated her mother’s tears. It was horrible to feel that pain, the pain of knowing there was nothing she could do for her mum on top of the pain of missing Fred. It was just one more reason for Ginny to stay with Harry as often as possible. 

 

“Have you seen Ron?” she asked, trying to break the tense silence. This was an iffy subject to get into, but she was curious, and she couldn’t think of anything else to say. 

 

“This morning. I still don’t know where he’s going if that’s what you mean,” her mother replied. She was peeling potatoes. She had an actual metal peeler in one hand and a potato in the other. It was slower that way. It filled more time that way. 

 

“Hermione has been a mess,” Ginny told her. “She’s … Harry and I try, but she wants Ron.” if she was going to be honest, Ginny was quite angry with her idiot brother. He had barely been home, barely spoken to any of them. She hated that he just vanished without telling anyone where he was going, and she hated that Hermione hurt so much because of it. 

 

“I know.” The older witch was frowning now. “I don’t know what is wrong with that boy.” She stood abruptly, leaving her tool and potato on the table. She shimmied across the kitchen to slam a pot down on the stove, which caused Ginny to jump. “Is Harry going to be here for dinner?” 

 

“I don’t know. I can ask him if you want,” Ginny offered, not wanting to upset her further. 

 

“It would be nice to see him,” her mother said, her entire body tense. 

 

“I’ll floo over and ask him when Bill and Fleur get here,” Ginny offered. 

 

“And you are staying here tonight.” It wasn’t a question. 

 

“Mum,” Ginny began with every intention of arguing. 

 

“Ginevra,” her mother snapped. 

 

“He barely sleeps when I am there. When I’m not, I know he doesn’t sleep at all,” she insisted, her own heart seizing at the thought. Harry was struggling, they all were. If there was something she could do to help him, the man she loved, she was going to do it. 

 

“He can stay here. We have plenty of room,” Molly insisted. 

 

“He doesn’t want to stay here, Mum.” And, it was so true. Harry needed space and not to be smothered by her family every moment of the day. 

 

“You are sixteen years old Ginny!” Her mother had pointed her wand at the potatoes on the table, and they zoomed across the room to land in her pot with a large plop and spray of water. 

 

“I’ll be seventeen by the end of the summer,” Ginny insisted. She would be an adult, free to make all of her own choices. 

 

“You know how your father and I feel about you staying over there Ginny. It is not appropriate.” Ginny knew her parents were traditional. She knew that Fleur and Bill had slept in separate rooms before they were married, but Ginny was too tired to care about their etiquette. Harry needed her, and she didn’t give a bloody damn anymore. 

 

“I don’t really care. I love him.” 

 

“I know. Dad and I love him, too,” her mother insisted, but it wasn’t the same. They couldn’t possibly understand what it felt like to be away from him at night right now. 

 

“He needs me,” she insisted. 

 

“Ginny,” her mother sighed out, exasperated. 

 

She couldn’t contain her frustration any longer. She broke. “I’m all he has left, Mum. Hermione is back at Hogwarts, and Ron is off doing Merlin knows what, and I’m it, and I can only do this for him for a couple of months, and then he is going to be all alone, so just stop!” 

 

“Ginny!”

 

But Ginny was still shouting. “Maybe this is why Ron is never here! Maybe so you don't constantly harp on him about every decision he makes!” 

 

“Young la…” 

 

“I’m leaving. Harry won’t be here for dinner.” Her chair toppled and fell on its side as she stood, but she didn’t bother scooping down to pick it up. 

 

XXX

 

Wednesday, July 22nd, 1998 

 

Hermione was sitting at the library in the Muggle Studies section when she heard someone approaching. She didn’t really think much of it. She was sure it was Madame Pince putting books away. Draco had been hiding in his room when they weren’t meeting. So far they had been meeting for two hours a day in the library at this table going through lessons for Muggle Studies, and then he would retreat to his room to work on his own. Hermione had finally met with McGonagall this morning and gotten her approval for practical lessons, so she was working on developing plans for the rest of the summer. 

 

“Hermione?” She heard an uncertain male voice, a voice that she did not recognize, and looked up to see Benjamin Crowley staring at her. “What are you doing here?” 

 

“Oh, I’m … well … Professor McGonagall asked me to come tutor Malfoy.” She let her eyes linger on his dark hair, which he had grown out a bit, and his piercing blue eyes. He was tall, but probably not quite as tall as Ron, and his smile was kind. 

 

“Oh!” he declared, his smile turning into a broad grin. “She told me she was going to find someone. I didn’t realize she meant you. I guess … with your history...” he trailed off. 

 

“He’s actually being sort of decent,” Hermione said with a tone of surprise. The whole thing had been better than she expected. “I’m sure a desire not to return to Azkaban plays a huge part in that,” she admitted. 

 

Ben pulled out the seat next to her and sat down as he said, “I’m sure it does.” He leaned over to look at what she was reading. “Recipes?” 

 

“I got the approval for practical lessons. We’re going to use the kitchens next week,” she told him excitedly. 

 

“Will the house elves let you in there?” He grinned, and she realized he was teasing her. She smiled back and shook her head. 

 

“My guess is they will give us a wide berth. Most of them aren’t crazy about me, ” she admitted. 

 

“Their loss.” He grinned again, and Hermione suddenly realized just how close they were. She looked down at the page and felt a flush rise in her cheeks. She wasn’t certain, because honestly it hadn’t happened all that often, but she thought he was flirting with her. 

 

“Yes, I suppose,” she mumbled back, trying to force her eyes to focus on the scones recipe in front of her. 

 

“So, are you going to be here for the year?” 

 

“Yes. I wanted to get my seventh year in.” 

 

“That makes sense, though I doubt you need it. Most brilliant witch of our age, isn’t that what they always say about you?” he teased. 

 

“Errr, well, yeah, but …” 

 

“You could probably teach this stuff better than I can.” He moved one hand onto her book, inches from hers.

“I doubt that, I’m sure you will do a great job,” she assured him. 

 

“I’d like to hear how your practical lessons go. That might be a good thing to add in. Muggle Studies has always been a bit dull.” They both laughed at the truth of those words. 

 

“Is that why you want to teach it?” she asked with a smile, opening up to him. 

 

“A teaching position at Hogwarts isn’t something you turn down at twenty years old. It opens a lot of doors.” 

 

“No, I suppose it isn’t. What doors are you hoping to open?”

 

“Doors in the Ministry,” he told her. 

 

“That is where I would like to end up as well. I think maybe in Magical Creatures.” She had been thinking a lot about the changes that she would like to see made in the Ministry. She had considered several different departments actually, but she was leaning towards Magical Creatures. It seemed to be the department in the most immediate need for someone with half a brain to come in and actually accomplish something. 

 

“Seems appropriate.” He gave a small laugh. “What else are you thinking about teaching practically?” 

 

“Gardening for sure. I’m not positive about the rest. Muggle currency I suppose will be easy to do.” She bit her lip as she finished speaking, her mind turning over ideas. 

 

“I wonder if I could get the shops in Hogsmeade to go along with something,” he mused. 

 

“Madame Rosmerta might be willing, or Aberforth.” 

 

“I’ll have to speak with them.” 

 

“So what were you looking for here?” she asked. 

 

“What?” He frowned, apparently confused by her question. 

 

“Here. In the library,” she told him, motioning around them with a small smile. 

 

“Oh, I was just coming to get working on lessons. The, uh, well, the Death Eaters destroyed everything. McGonagall had to replace the books in this section of the library. She knew I would need them so they were made a priority,” he informed her. 

 

Hermione looked around at the books, trying not to imagine what had happened to the originals. “I wonder how many she wasn’t able to replace.” She glanced back at him. He’d given her a small amount of her personal space back, but not enough to make her comfortable.

 

“Too many,” he sighed softly shaking his head. 

 

Hermione frowned with him. “I wonder how long it will take before this place feels like Hogwarts again.” 

 

“I don’t know, I suspect it might never feel the same again,” he said, speaking her fear aloud. 

 

“I know. I … I wanted to come back, but … it’s hard being here. Worrying about how my friends are really doing out there in the real world.” 

 

“Are Harry and Ron coming back?” he asked. 

 

“No,” she frowned down at her recipe again. “They are both starting Auror training.”

 

Something about her voice or the way her body changed must have shown him that she didn’t want to talk about it, because when he spoke again it was to change the subject. “Do you mind if I work here also? It’s easier with the books being here.” 

 

She normally prefered to work alone. She did most of her revising alone. Even when Harry and Ron had been at Hogwarts with her, she spent more of her time in the library without them than with, but lately, she had been lacking human contact. Malfoy was trying not to be vile, but he wasn’t exactly good company. They didn’t have conversations past what she was tutoring him on. It was nice to have someone her own age that seemed to enjoy her company. “Sure.” 

 

XXX

 

Thursday, July 23rd, 1998

 

“I talked to Ben yesterday,” Granger said. 

 

Draco looked up at her words, trying to figure out who she was talking about. He ran the name through his memories, but nothing clicked. He didn’t want to admit this to her though. She clearly thought he should know who she was talking about. “Oh?” 

 

“Yeah. He seems like he will do a good job.” She shrugged, and Draco saw something in the way her lips curved at the side that made him think that she was thinking something she wasn’t telling him. 

 

“Good.” He still had no idea who she was talking about, so he just looked back down at the page in front of him. It was telling him about hangman, which sounded like a pretty stupid game to him. It was apparently commonly played by Muggle children, and they lost when an entire dead body was drawn hanging from a pole. It was pretty disgusting. 

 

“I mean, I know he’s young, but, well, maybe that will be good. This place could use some fresh ideas.” He wished she would stop yammering or give him something that he could use to figure out what she was talking about so he wouldn’t look like a bloody idiot.

 

“Hmm,” he said noncommittally. She bit the edge of her quill. He watched her out of the corner of her eyes as she stared at the books and sucked at the end, clearly thinking. 

 

“I told him we were going to be implementing some practical lessons, and he seemed interested in using the idea. That would be great, I think.” 

 

“Can’t do worse than Carrow,” he said, hoping that he was right in his assumption that this Ben fellow was replacing Alecto as the Muggle Studies Professor. 

 

“I suppose that is very true,” Granger said sadly. 

 

They fell back into silence. That was their normal state, and he was much more comfortable with it. He preferred it when she was quiet and chewing her quill. She spoke too much. She tried to fill the silence with words, and facts, and information about Muggles, and he just wanted her to stop talking. He knew he needed to listen to her to learn all of this, but it just seemed so dumb. He was learning about Hangman, and she was prattling on about the new Muggle Studies Professor and … wait … “Did you call him Ben?” he looked over at her, his eyes wide. 

 

“Oh, well, it’s habit I suppose.” There was no denying it this time. She was blushing. Granger was blushing about a Professor. 

 

“He’s a Professor,” he told her. 

 

“He’s only two years older than us,” she said defensively, crossing her arms as her voice rose. 

 

“You like him.” It came out as a sneer. He didn’t try, and he regretted it the moment it came out of his mouth. It was habit. Trying to get under her skin, to unnerve her, to destroy her, was second nature to him, and this little gem had just been too perfect. Her entire face was red and her bushy hair was doing nothing to block the indignation in her eyes. 

 

“I think he will be a great Professor,” she countered, and he couldn’t help it. He snorted. She was a ridiculous liar. 

 

“You are a terrible liar,” he told her, trying to look back down at the book, but she huffed, and his eyes moved back up to her. 

 

“Well I’m sorry that I actually enjoyed someone’s company around here. It’s not exactly fun being stuck with you every day!” 

 

That was a low blow. Sure, they hadn’t been having fun, but for them, the past week had actually kind of been a miracle. They hadn’t argued. They hadn’t raised their voices. They hadn’t even called each other names, and now she was trying to imply that he was such bloody awful company that it was his fault she was getting all strung up about a bloody Professor of all people. “And what will your boyfriend think of Ben?” It was condescending. The way he dipped his head to the side and dropped his quill mixed with his tone, and his entire demeanor was the definition of the word. He knew it. 

 

“What? I … You … Not …” she spluttered on, searching for words. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she finally spat as she pushed her seat back. That was news. He’d seen them at the battle. She and Weasel. They had definitely been something that day. What had changed? 

 

“What? Did Weasley dump you for some bimbo brought on by his five minutes of fame?” She was already leaving. It didn’t really matter if he went for the low blow. She had done it also, telling him that he was such terrible company. 

 

“I can’t believe …” Granger was shoving things in her bag as her hair flew around her, her lips quivered with anger, her fingers trembled. “I thought you were sort of human.” She spun on her heel, dragging her bag behind her, pulling it over her shoulder as she stomped away from him. 

 

Draco watched her go, and then realized that he was going to have to fix this. McGonagall had told him that she was pretty much his only hope of passing this fucking class. He picked up his book, slammed it shut, and threw it as hard as he could at the bookshelf in front of him. “Fucking Mud … Just … Fuck.” He buried his fingers in his hair, and his elbows hit the table. 

 

XXX

 

Sunday, July 26th, 1998

 

Hermione wasn’t sleeping. That was nothing new. She hadn’t been sleeping since the battle, since Ron essentially vanished, but it was getting to her now, and things with Malfoy were messed up, and it was stupid. They had done it for a week. They had met for six two-hour long sessions and managed to work without shouting or being vile, and then Thursday had happened, and she had stomped out on him. 

 

She had been furious. It wasn’t even really him that she was furious at. He had just been himself. She was furious at herself and very furious at Ron. She had been stupid and forgotten who she was dealing with. She knew better. She shouldn’t have let that happen. She had pitied him, started to think that perhaps what she had seen in his eyes as she had been held down on the floor of his drawing room had been something that felt bad for her, something that didn’t want her to suffer. 

 

And Ron. Stupid, sodding Ron. He had kissed her. KISSED HER. They had been working towards it for years. Each interaction, each word, each touch a dance, and then it had happened, and she had thought that they were together, that they were Ron and Hermione, finally. She had been wrong. She had been wrong about Malfoy and wrong about Ron, and Malfoy had known exactly what to say to get her … well … acting like a ridiculous child. 

 

It didn’t matter that he had been right. She did like Ben. He’d made her laugh. He’d made her feel like a real person again, one that wasn’t just Harry’s sidekick or whatever the world saw her as now. She was just her, just Hermione again, and it had been wonderful. She could still remember the shiver that had run up her hand when he had brushed it as he leaned past her to grab a book she had finished using. He was a Professor, but he was only two years older than her, and it wasn’t like he was her Professor. She didn’t take Muggle Studies. Also, it wasn’t like she would ever do anything with him, honestly. But, something about Malfoy being the only person in her life close enough to even realize that she had felt something between them in the library the day before had been impossible to handle, especially when it was coupled with the way she was agonizing over Ron’s vanishing act. She had skipped their scheduled tutoring on Friday. She couldn’t bear to see Malfoy. She had hidden in her room for the past two days, avoiding him. 

 

She was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and pondering all of these things, on top of her normal musings about Harry and Ginny, and the Weasleys, and Teddy, and her parents, and everyone else that she cared about. Her brain wouldn’t shut off. It wouldn’t shut up. She tossed, and turned, and fluffed her pillows, and resituated her blankets, and tried to read, and just kept staring at the same words over and over again. It was infuriating, and it was three in the morning. 

 

Hermione crawled out of the sheets and pulled on her robe and slippers. She was going to go for a walk, get something to drink, and maybe then she would be able to sleep. She needed a change of scenery. She needed out of this room.

 

She padded across the room and pulled the door of her bedroom open, stepping out into the common area. Draco looked up from his spot on the sofa. “Granger,” he said, clearly startled by her emergence. 

 

“Sorry,” she found herself saying. “I didn’t think you would be out here.” 

 

“I didn’t think you would be either.” He was holding a book, just sitting there staring at her in his pajamas. 

 

“I should...” she said. 

 

“Look, Granger,” he started at the same time. She stopped talking and waited. “I’m sorry.” 

 

Hermione dropped her hand from the door and stared as her mouth fell open. “What?” 

 

“Don’t make me say it again,” he said, frowning. 

 

“I … okay.” 

 

“I won’t bring it up again.” She wasn’t sure if he meant Ben or Ron or both, but she found that she was too shocked to care. He’d apologized to her once before. The first day, but that had been over almost nothing, just a small misunderstanding. This had been a real argument, and he was apologizing for it. 

 

“Okay,” she told him. 

 

“Okay,” he replied. 

 

“I’m going to go get a drink now.” 

 

“Fine.” He looked back down at his book, and she moved towards the exit of their common room as quickly as she could imagine was acceptable. He was sorry. Draco Malfoy was sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

 

Monday, July 27th, 1998

 

Harry wiped at his brow with a cloth, breathing heavy. It had been over a year since he had led workouts for his Quidditch team, but even those hadn’t touched his first day of Auror training. The Auror training facility was separate from the ministry, a large building filled with many rooms for different scenarios, and a large yard that had been adapted as well. They had led the new recruits around the building and the yard, introducing each space quickly as they walked past it, and then one of the Auror’s, a man at least twice Harry’s age who everyone called Davos, had started to lead them through exercises outside. They had stopped for thirty minutes at midday to eat and rest and then gone back at it. They hadn’t touched their wands once. In fact, their wands were back inside, safely locked away until they went to retrieve them at the end of the day. 

 

“They’re trying to kill us,” Ron groaned. He was lying on the grass, clutching at his side.

 

Harry laughed at him, though he wasn’t entirely convinced Ron was wrong. “I guess they can’t have us running around getting winded chasing people.” 

 

“Isn’t that what brooms are for?” Ron groaned. “Bloody bastards.” 

 

Harry looked over the rest of the recruits. There were four others in the group with them, no one he had known before today, and they were all making their way slowly back to the building. “We should probably get heading back to get our things,” he urged Ron as he pushed up from the ground. Ron made a dramatic groaning noise as he followed suit. “You want to get some dinner?”

 

Ron sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck as he walked. “I’ve got to go do something.” 

 

“Do what?” Harry asked, not bothering to keep the annoyance from his voice. He was too tired to care. 

 

“Take care of something. It’s not a big deal,” Ron shrugged as if that would end the conversation. 

 

“You’re being a bloody idiot, Ron,” Harry snapped, and Ron stopped walking to stare at Harry with his mouth agape. “Hermione is off at Hogwarts, and, well, you bloody kissed her.” 

 

Ron sputtered, the words failing him, while Harry tried not to back down. This was Ron, his oldest friend, and he hated that this was happening. This exact moment was precisely why he had quietly, ashamedly, hoped that Hermione and Ron would never cross this line. During the battle, it had seemed like they were truly going to end up together, like everything would be okay. Harry had still been weary, but he had been happy for them as well. That joy was short-lived for both him and Hermione as something had happened to Ron, changing him. Harry was sure that it was more than just doubt about the relationship. It seemed deeper than that. They had all three changed, and Ron wouldn’t just leave them like that again without having a reason, surely. As Harry watched him, his expression fierce, Ron sighed and wiped at his face with his hand. “I know,” Ron muttered, turning his eyes down to the grass. 

 

“So, what are you doing?” Harry asked, sure he sounded a little desperate. 

 

“I’ve been … it sounds stupid, Harry,” he insisted. 

 

“Better stupid than being an arse to our best friend.” 

 

“I’ve been with Lavender at the hospital,” he admitted. “She’s still there, probably will be for months.” 

 

“Lavender?” Harry asked, confusion clear on his face. 

 

“Yes. After the … what he did to her …” 

 

“Greyback,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. “So, are you and her …” He wasn’t quite sure how to ask the question, but he needed an answer. 

 

“No, we aren’t. Not like that. She didn’t even know I was there until last week.” As he spoke, a flush reddened his face.

 

“So, you’ve just been, what? Sitting outside her room or something?” 

 

Ron rubbed the back of his neck while an embarrassed grin spread across his mouth. “Yeah, basically.” 

 

“That is stupid,” Harry told him, laughing. 

 

“I know,” Ron agreed. “I’ll talk to Hermione. I know I need to.” 

 

“Good.” Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Now that’s settled, you’re moving in with me.” 

 

“What?” Ron asked, eyes growing wide in surprise. 

 

“I can’t live in that big empty house alone. Come stay with me,” Harry urged. He needed someone else in the house when Ginny left.

 

“I thought my sister was living there,” Ron told him, frowning deeply. So, apparently, he was still paying attention to some things. 

 

“Well, she’ll be back at Hogwarts in a month. You can wait until she’s gone if you want, but I would really like to have you there. We’ve shared a room and a tent, so, surely we can handle a house,” Harry forced a grin, but the truth was he was desperately hoping Ron would agree. He was afraid of Ginny leaving, of nights without her in bed beside him. 

 

“Yeah, all right. I’m waiting until term or else my Mum will start asking me questions I don’t want to know the answer to,” Ron muttered as he started off again.

 

XXX

 

Monday, July 27th, 1998

 

Seeing Draco Malfoy gardening was certainly a new experience for Hermione. Gryffindor had never shared Herbology with the Slytherins, but she imagined that, even if they had, this would still be utterly different. Herbology was nearly always fantastical with the plants trying to eat them or going through puberty. In contrast, Muggle gardening was just dirt, seeds, and water. 

 

She watched him carefully throughout the lesson as she politely explained each step, and he seemed more solemn than normal. She had rolled up her sleeves and opted not to wear her gloves for this task, enjoying the feel of dirt between her fingers. It reminded her of her childhood. Her mother had tried to grow flowers in the front garden nearly every year even though her father insisted that his wife, ‘though beautiful and talented, should never go anywhere near a living thing and expect it to stay that way.’ He teased Hermione mercilessly that this was why she had been an only child.

 

Draco, in contrast, wore his long sleeves and dragon hide gloves. It seemed a bit much for this task, but she didn’t dare say anything to him after their last interaction. He had apologized, and that apology still hung between them with a thick and terrible tension. She spoke to explain what she was doing, and to ramble on about Muggle greenhouses, farming, and the issues the Muggle world faced with food shortages in some parts of the world due to poverty, droughts, poor soil conditions or agriculture, and other issues. 

 

Draco only opened his mouth to ask questions, and these were extremely limited. If she had to guess, she would say that he was shocked and possibly a little appalled when she explained to him that hunger was a desperate issue for the Muggle world. There had been a momentary freeze of his hands, a widening of his eyes, and a short twist of his neck in her direction, but he had recovered quickly, restoring the mask of indifference to its proper place. Hermione had filed this moment away in her mind next to his apology and continued on as if she hadn’t noticed it. 

 

XXX

 

Wednesday, July 29th, 1998

 

After leaving her daily Muggle Studies lesson, Hermione headed out of the castle for the lake. She needed a break from her room, the library, and the construction. It was a beautiful day with the sun shining, and she appreciated the fact that she wasn’t in her Hogwarts robes yet. The giant squid was floating at the surface of the lake, enjoying the warmth, near Dumbledore’s white tomb. Hermione avoided both the creature and the monument by heading for the far side of the lake instead. The grounds were empty, which was still odd to her after two weeks at Hogwarts. Most of the work on the outside of the castle was finished already, the wards replaced, or the best they could manage at least. Anything else that needed to be done out here was less important than fixing the chaos that had mangled the inside of the castle. She still avoided the workers whenever possible, finding solace in places that they hadn’t needed to repair or where they were already finished.

 

Hermione fell to her knees at the shore, pulling a blanket from her bag to lay out on the grass. Once the corners were smoothed out, she spread out on top of the blanket, closing her eyes and enjoying the heat from the sun. She wanted to feel much like the giant squid must, except she couldn’t seem to push her cares away. She tried to empty her mind by focusing on the way her arms warmed and her hair blew softly in the breeze, tickling her face, but it was impossible. Her mind raced, wondering about Harry’s sleep schedule, and where Ron had been, and whether Draco would pass this exam at the end of the year, and other thoughts that she didn’t even want to give words. 

 

“Hey,” a voice said from somewhere above and to the side. She opened her eyes, squinting in the sudden rush of sunlight. After a few disoriented moments, she saw the outline of Ben standing beside her. 

 

“Hey,” she responded. 

 

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the ground beside her, “Or would you like to be alone?” 

 

“You can sit,” she told him, as she moved up into a sitting position herself. Lying next to him seemed too vulnerable. 

 

“Sorry if I’m intruding,” he told her. He set a bag down beside her. “I came out to enjoy some of this warmth for a change.” 

 

“No, you’re fine. Honestly, it gets pretty lonely here without the other students. Malfoy and I, well, we’re getting along okay right now, but he isn’t exactly great company.” She sighed as she glanced back over at the Giant Squid. He was swishing his tentacles along the lake, making large black ripples across the surface. 

 

“I know what you mean,” he laughed. “Most of the professors still feel like they should be teaching me. It’s not exactly comfortable hanging out in the staff room. I mostly stay in my office, rooms, or the library.” 

 

“I would probably do the same,” Hermione admitted. “I guess I kind of am.” 

 

“Have you been down to the village at all since you’ve been back?” he asked, turning towards her. 

 

She was instantly reminded of butterbeer and easier times in the pub with Ron laughing at her across the table. She shook away the memories. “No. Have you?” 

 

“I went down last weekend. Maybe we could go down to the Three Broomsticks for dinner Friday?” He spoke the words as if they were no big deal, but Hermione’s chest made an odd clenching sensation that seemed to drain her of breath for a moment. 

 

“You want to have dinner with me?” she asked, trying not to sound like he must be absolutely stupid. 

 

“I mean, I just thought it might be nice to be around some other people, do some shopping, talk about how your practical lessons are going.” He was grinning at her, and the dimple in his left cheek drew her eyes. 

 

“Oh.” She tried to stop staring at him but failed. Talking about her practical lessons made it seem like they were merely colleagues meeting to discuss curriculum. Surely, that would be okay. “I can’t Friday. It’s Harry’s birthday.” 

 

“Well, that’s okay. It was just an idea,” he said, turning away, but he seemed, dare she wish it, disappointed. 

 

“We could have lunch on Saturday,” she suggested, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. Lunch seemed safer, better somehow. 

 

“Yeah,” he smiled broadly at her and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Lunch sounds good.” 

 

XXX

 

Friday, July 31st, 1998

 

Hermione had been sitting on a sofa talking to Ginny when Ron had followed Harry into the room. Ron at least had the sense to look ashamed as his neck turned pink, and he avoided her eyes. She had tried to keep her face even, to talk to him throughout the evening as if nothing else had happened. She could do it for Harry. She could do it for her own dignity. They made it through the dinner Kreacher had made for them, and the cake Ginny had baked. They had all laughed more than they had in months, mostly about life before the last year and the training that Harry and Ron were undergoing. Harry asked her how her lessons were going, and she blew past it, telling him that it was fine. She didn’t bring up Ben at all, not wanting to get into any of the details with Ron there. 

 

After dinner, Ginny started clearing their plates, and Harry offered to help, lifting Hermione’s plate onto his own. It took Hermione about fifteen seconds to realize that they had done this on purpose to leave her and Ron alone. 

 

Ron seemed to figure it out as well. He cleared his throat and looked over at her. “Do you wanna - can we go talk?” 

 

Hermione stared down at the grain of the table for several long moments. “Yeah. Okay.” She pushed back from the table and led the way out of the room. She could hear Ron’s footsteps behind her as she made her way up the stairs to her bedroom. She didn’t want to be overheard. As she took each step, her chest tightened and her heart raced. By the time she sat on her bed, crossing her legs underneath her, she was sure that he must be able to hear it. 

 

Ron shut the door behind him and took slow determined steps to sit beside her. She felt the bed shift under his weight. He reached out with tenuous fingers to touch her hand, and she let him grasp her fingers in his. A subtle tingle danced up her arm. As much as she longed to not feel anything for him after the way he had been acting, she still did.

“What is going on?” she asked, still trying to calm the quick tremor of her heart in her chest. 

 

“I don’t know,” Ron said. He stared down at their clasped hands and squeezed softly at her fingers. 

 

“Where have you been?” she continued, needing something from him. 

 

“At the hospital,” Ron told her. Hermione stared back in confusion. This was probably one of the last places she would have guessed that he had been hiding from them all. 

 

“Why?” she blurted, before she could even consider the possible reasons. 

 

“Lavender is there,” Ron whispered, his hand holding hers tightly as the words resonated with her. 

 

“Lavender,” she repeated, the word tasting awful in her mouth. “Lavender is there.” Her eyes searched his face for something, more of an explanation. “Are you with her?” She hated the way her voice shook as the words spilled out. She’d practically scheduled a date with another man for the following day, but the fact that he had been with Lavender all this time made her feel betrayed in a way she hadn’t expected. 

 

“No,” Ron assured her quickly. He moved his body closer to hers, and Hermione tried not to move away. “It isn’t like that. I just … I feel like I should have been there to help her.” 

 

“When you were with me?” Hermione asked, not reassured at all. 

 

“Yes. No. I mean, it’s just, she needs someone,” Ron said. 

 

“I needed someone. I needed you,” Hermione choked out, tears forming in her eyes. “I waited and waited, and you just weren’t there.” 

 

“I’m so sorry,” Ron leaned in moving his free hand to her hair. His forehead rested against hers and he readjusted, resting his weight on his knees. “I was an idiot. I … I just couldn’t deal with any of it … I …” Hermione heard him sob and watched as tears began to roll down his face. “Everything reminds me of Fred, and I just feel useless. I wasn’t doing anything there, I know, but it was … easier.”

 

“I needed you,” Hermione said again, letting her own tears fall as she gripped his shirt pulling him closer. Her lips met his as they tangled together, a mess of limbs and emotions. His lips were rough and salty, his hands desperate and quick. She fell back onto the bed as her fingers raked up his back, pulling him closer. She needed him like oxygen. She had needed him for so long, every day missed him, every moment felt his absence, and now he was here, finally. 

 

Her legs moved apart of their own accord, and he fell between them, his body pressing hard against her as his mouth moved from her lips to her cheek, roughly kissing a path down to her neck. She felt her body react, shivers of need converging where their bodies pressed against one another. Her mind raced as his hand pushed her shirt up. She wanted him so badly, but she was so angry. She moaned into the air next to his flaming hair as his teeth grazed her skin, and his hand found her breast. 

 

She wanted him. Her body was on fire, pressing up into him, asking him for more - please, more - while she tried to process how they had gotten here from crying moments ago. 

 

Need. 

 

She needed him. 

 

And, he wasn’t there. 

 

“Stop.” He stilled above her instantly, his body rigid. His face moved in front of hers again, and she met his eyes. “What has changed?” she asked. 

 

“What?” he replied, breathless. 

 

“What has changed? You couldn’t be around us because it hurt, and now what has changed?” she asked, watching him, desperately ignoring the way her body was screaming for him to touch her. 

 

“I …” he reeled, searching for an answer, and then finally fell to the side, pushing up as she moved to sit beside him again. “Nothing.” 

 

“I can’t do this,” she told him. “I want to, but I can’t wonder where you are or what you are doing all the time.” These words hurt more than she had ever thought possible, but she couldn’t live like this. Life was hard enough without this. 

 

“I know,” he agreed. 

 

“Maybe … after you get it figured out, whatever is going on, maybe then,” she whispered, but even as she said the words, she doubted them. Something felt final about this moment, and the fire that he had lit inside of her moments ago burned at her insides, tearing her apart. 

 

“Maybe,” Ron said, his voice carrying the same doubt. 

 

XXX

 

Saturday, August 1st, 1998

 

Ben was waiting for Hermione at the front door of the school. She had nearly cancelled. After she made it back to Hogwarts the night before, she had crawled into bed, still wearing her clothes, and cried herself to sleep while clutching her blanket around her. As much as she wanted to convince herself that this lunch was just lunch, she was sure that it meant more than that to him. Hermione knew that she shouldn’t be getting involved with anyone right now, least of all Benjamin Crowley, the brand new Muggle Studies Professor, but she no longer cared. She had done everything right. She had waited patiently for Ron to grow up, to realize she was in love with him, and for a very, very short moment in time, it had felt like all of the pieces had come together, that they would be together, but then he disappeared, again, and she was done. She was so done waiting. She loved him, and he would always be her friend, but she couldn’t keep wondering where he was, what he was doing, or why had was with Lavender Brown, of all people.

 

So, she had woken up that morning, taken a long, too-hot shower, and dress for her sort-of-a-date lunch with a Professor. When she had found him at the front door of the school, he had smiled widely at her. She pretended not to notice the brief move his eyes made up her body before they met hers. 

 

“Ready,” he asked.

 

“Yes,” she replied, confident. 

 

As they walked down to the village together, he asked her how Harry’s birthday dinner had been. They had chatted about the dinner and how auror training was treating her friends until they made it to the Three Broomsticks. Ben held the door open for her as she walked inside, and Hermione was struck by the stark contrast in the pub compared to the environment she usually experienced. There were several small groups sitting around at tables, eating and laughing, but the place was much quieter and calmer than it usually was when very crevice was packed with students and their chatter. 

 

“Ben! Hermione!” Madam Rosmerta greeted them from the table she was clearing. 

 

“Hello, Madam Rosmerta,” Ben replied, just as happy to see the woman as she was to see them. 

 

“What brings you two down here today?” she asked, moving towards the counter with full arms. 

 

“Your wonderful food, of course,” Ben told her, giving the woman a broad smile. He seemed to smile so easily. Hermione had been finding it difficult to find things to be truly happy about. The laughter at dinner with her friends the night before had been refreshing. Being with Ben, someone that still seemed to be so naturally happy, made her feel that same cleansing sensation. It was as if she could breathe a little more freely around him. 

 

They placed their lunch orders, and they each carried a large butterbeer over to a corner table. Ben insisted on paying for her mean “because it was my idea,” which further convinced her that this was more than two colleagues sharing food. 

 

“So, how is your work in the green houses going so far?” he asked as they settled into their chairs. 

 

“Good, we don’t have much to show for it yet, but good.” 

 

“Can I come see?” 

 

She looked at him for a long moment, “There really isn’t,” she began, but he was smiling at her agains, and she was sure that she was blushing as her eyes lingered on his mouth. “Yes, of course,” she finished. 

 

“Good,” he replied. “Now that we’ve covered that, we can talk about other things.”

 

She laughed uneasily, “I suppose so.” 

 

They spent the next two hours talking over lunch and then an empty table. He told her about his life after Hogwarts, working in France for a researcher, and she told him family. They talked at length about their desire to work in the Ministry and agreed that the changes being made now weren’t nearly enough. They imagined a world, hopefully not too far off where they both would be able to impact real legislation and make some of those changes. 

 

Hermione felt comfortable with him. He was easy to talk to, and she didn’t feel pressured to share anything about her pas with him. He didn’t seem to care that her best friend had saved the world just a few months ago, but he did seem to care and understand that she didn’t want to talk about it. 

 

By the time they were standing in the entrance hall again, she was entirely sure that she was smitten with him. He was intelligent, clever, and engaging, and the way he seemed unaffected by the war, which had torn her life apart, drew her to him. She wanted to be that way again. 

 

“Let me know when you have some time to go to the greenhouse,” he told her as they stood facing each other. 

 

“I will,” she promised, and left him standing there. She couldn’t stop her mind from wondering if he would have kissed her if they had been somewhere more private. 

 

XXX

 

Sunday, August 2nd, 1998

 

Draco was seated in the circular common room. He lounged on the sofa, his socked feet rubbing together absent-mindedly as he read the agriculture book Granger had given him to read over the weekend. He had nearly finished the atrocity. It was utterly dull, while it simultaneously solidified his disgust about the topic of hunger that Granger had been rambling about while they had planted in one of the greenhouses on Monday. The book had discussed the many philanthropic efforts that Muggles had and were attempting to help with the issue of hunger, which he supposed was why Granger had wanted him to read it, or maybe it wasn’t. That would be the way that he would think about it. If it was him trying to educate her, he would have found books that would have hinted at things, explaining them in a way that seemed logical enough that he could manipulate them into being her own opinions. It was probably unlikely that Granger was attempting to be that sneaky about this. She probably just wanted him to understand the topic. He turned the page, after observing an extremely still photograph of neat rows of labeled crops. It was odd that the breeze didn’t push the leaves or the clouds move in the sky. The Muggle photographs in the book were a bore. 

 

Behind him, Draco heard her door open. He hadn’t really been paying attention, it didn’t matter to him one way or the other, but it seemed like these midnight excursions out of the common room might be a regular occurrence. 

 

She moved into the room far enough that he could see her as she tied her robe in place. Her hair seemed to have positively given up on any modicum of decency. It stuck out from her tie at odd angles, darting all around her head as she looked at him. “Don’t you ever sleep?” she asked. Her tone was even. He knew she wasn’t trying to be rude, but it still stung. He attempted to sleep as little as possible. He imagined that her reason for leaving the common room to walk nearly every night was the same reason that he sat up late into the night reading. His dreams were waiting, and nothing about that fact was inviting. 

 

“No,” he snapped, possibly a little more firm than was really necessary. “Do you?” He stared back down at his book as he spoke.

 

“Not well,” she answered, still standing. 

 

“Pomfrey could give you something for that,” he told her. He watched her from the corner of his eye to find that she was staring at him, her expression pensive. He just wanted her to go on with her walk and leave him alone. 

 

“Couldn’t she give you the same thing?” she asked.

 

“If I asked her for it, she might.” Go away. He hated these moments. The moments when Granger tried to talk to him like a real person. During their lessons, she spoke to him mostly how one of their professors might. She lectured, giving time for questions, leading practical work. It was easy to ignore who she was, what the sleeve of her robe was hiding from view. When she spoke to him like this, as if she wanted to be his friend, it was too difficult. 

 

“Hmmm.” Hermione made a noise that seemed like it should convey some message. “I’m going to get a drink and have a walk,” she told him, turning her body towards the door as she began to move. Draco looked up at her receding figure, not trusting himself with any more words. His mind was screaming at him to push her way, but he knew that he needed her. There was no way he would get through this work without her. He would just have to do everything in his power to keep her at arm's length and discourage this kind of behavior without upsetting her enough that she would refuse to teach him any longer. A cold indifference seemed the best option at the moment.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six 

 

Friday, August 7th, 1998

 

The Headmistress seemed to almost fall into her chair. If she thought it would do any good, Hermione would ask the older woman how she was doing, but it was clear that she was exhausted, overworked, and had no intention of slowing down. 

 

“So, how are your lessons progressing?” Professor McGonagall asked, sliding her hand across her brow as she spoke as if to brush away a loose piece of hair. 

 

“Well, actually. We are able to get along well enough to get through his lessons.” It had been nearly four weeks of lessons, and they had moved into a stride now. Hermione found that most of the materials that Muggle Studies class covered were utterly ridiculous. They talked about Muggle games and other trivial nonsense. It was no wonder that Arthur Weasley was able to obtain an O.W.L and have next to no actual knowledge on the subject. She was incorporating this information into her plan for their lessons, but she had also expanded in the areas she believed were most likely to appear on the exam, or that she thought particularly important for him to understand. 

 

They were doing practical lessons on Monday, with assignments for him to do upkeep in the greenhouse on his vegetables throughout the week. It was clear to her that Draco was frustrated with the pace that this project was taking on. He had asked her the week before if they could charm the soil to quicken the whole thing up and “get it over with.” She had explained that the time was the entire point of the assignment, and he had frowned the rest of the hour as she made him conduct soil samples and determine how the varying amounts of direct sunlight and moisture levels was affecting the growth of lettuce. It was dull and time consuming work, but that was really the point of it all. She had finally convinced the house elves to let them into the kitchen, so she was working on a plan to start that soon. 

 

On Tuesday and Wednesday they discussed Muggle History, a subject that was extremely lacking in the Muggle Studies curricula. She had ordered Draco several texts to read. That was one thing she never had to worry about. When Hermione gave him a text, Draco inhaled it, no matter how onerous it may be. He still wasn’t sleeping, and he wasn’t leaving their dorms unless they had a lesson. He seemed to be living and breathing this subject, which she wasn’t entirely convinced was healthy for him. They weren’t exactly friends though, and it didn’t feel safe to argue with him about it, so she just remembered that she was getting her job done and let him be. 

 

On Thursdays and Fridays they discussed the more trivial things that needed to be covered, as well as current culture. They played games and discussed the rules, and begun to study Muggle fashion trends. They would be moving into theater, music, and film next, followed by how to use a telephone and a computer. So far, these were the hardest days to get through. Draco seemed to be more irritable than the other days which were more lecture oriented. He had grown frustrated and asked her “Why are we doing this?” more than once. She mostly ignored him, moving on with their lesson until it was complete. 

 

“Good,” the Headmistress sighed. “I’m so grateful that you are making this work, Hermione.” 

 

“It’s been fine,” Hermione told her. The truth was that she was grateful to be here. She had been nervous at first, terrified that this would be a disaster, but working with Draco hadn’t been nearly as bad as she had expected, and it kept her from having to be around Ron in the wake of Harry’s birthday. She and Ben had taken to working in the library in the evenings. It wasn’t every evening, but three times in the past week they had ended up in the Muggle Studies section working at the same table for hours before one of them packed up, heading for bed. She was avoiding being alone with him. She accepted and owned that truth, but she wasn’t sure that she was ready for whatever came after this innocent flirtation. 

 

“You’ll let me know if that changes, won’t you?” Professor McGonagall asked, her eyes seeming to see much more than just Hermione before her. 

 

“Yes, of course,” Hermione told her, sure that it was a lie. Even if things did change, there was little chance she would be able to add more to the Headmistress’ plate.

 

XXX

 

Tuesday, August 11th, 1998

 

Despite the six years Harry had spent sharing a room with Neville Longbottom, it had become clear to him in the past half an hour that his girlfriend was a much better friend to the other boy. When Harry had asked her about her birthday, Ginny had seemed solemn, likely due to her continue estrangement with her mother, and told him she just wanted to do something low key with Neville and Luna, her two closest friends.

 

The idea of this hadn’t bothered him until he was faced with the actuality of their friendship before him. With Neville and Luna sitting across the table, Ginny lit up, her smile coming easier than it had it months. A conversation between the three of them was like a perfectly awkward and odd dance which forced him to think about the shattered state of his own trio. 

 

Ron and Hermione were his family. There were others he loved and cherished, but these two were the core of the odd mixture of friends who had become his family. Ron had told him in the vaguest terms possible about what had happened in Hermione’s bedroom and their decision not to be together. Harry wanted to feel for them. He did, sort of, but was also struggling to see past his own selfish motives in the situation. The idea of his family falling apart, again, when everything had finally seemed to come to some resolution, was suffocating. He needed them, both of them, and they needed him, just like Ginny needed Neville and Luna. 

 

This trio, this group of people who had become so close, were going off to Hogwarts in a few short weeks. They would be together, able to support one another and work through their wounds together. 

 

He would be here, at 12 Grimmauld place with Ron, likely ignoring their problems, and Hermione would be at Hogwarts. They were broken. Harry had nearly demanded that Ron move in, hoping that they would have a shot at fixing whatever was wrong. They would be working together as well, but he wasn’t sure if that would help. Ron hadn’t just left Hermione. He had checked out from his family, from Harry, from everything. Harry knew he wasn’t much better. He had gone on auto pilot, signing up for Auror training and pretending like everything was okay, but it wasn’t okay. He was still living his life in that perpetual state of tension, wondering when the next bad thing was going to happen. It had almost been easier before because he had known what the enemy was. Now he had no idea where the next attack would come from, because it would surely come. It always came. Every time he let himself feel happy, the world was swept out from beneath him. Why would this be any different?

 

So he tried to talk and pretend like this broken connection wasn’t eating away at him, but he felt out of sorts and his mind just kept jumping from the conversation at hand to his inner frustration at not knowing how to fix it. After they had eaten pudding and Neville and Luna had said their goodbyes, promising to meet them at the platform on September the 1st, Ginny sighed heavily, her hands still on the door, lingering there as if she could hold onto the joy of the evening just a moment longer. 

 

She turned to him, her mouth turned down at the corners. “Where are you?” she asked. 

 

He ran a hand through his hair, moving his eyes anywhere but her. “I don’t know.” 

 

“You didn’t seem to want to be here tonight.” She finally moved her hands, sliding them around her body as if she was giving herself a hug. 

 

“It wasn’t that,” Harry said. He should tell her. He knew that was probably the right thing to do in this situation, trust her enough with this, but he didn’t. They were still getting to know one another again. It had been so easy for a while, when they were losing themselves in each other as often as possible and had no responsibilities. Then Hermione had left, Ginny had stopped speaking to Molly, he had started working, and the day when they would be apart again was ticking ever closer, taunting them. 

 

“I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong,” Ginny insisted.

 

He looked at her then, determined to tell her, to be honest about it all. He opened his mouth, and the words wouldn’t come out. Harry closed the few feet between them and ran his hands up and down her arms. “It’s nothing,” he said finally. “I’m just tired.” 

 

“Okay,” she whispered, defeated. He could see the disappointment in her eyes, but he pushed it away. 

 

XXX

 

Friday, August 14th, 1998

 

Ben was already standing in front of the greenhouse by the time she walked up. He smiled broadly at her, his infectious ease instantly making her feel more comfortable. “Morning,” he told her. 

 

“Good morning,” she responded, not able to stop the stupid grin that fell across her lips. He had finally forced her to concede to showing him the process their vegetables were making the previous evening as they sat at their table amongst the Muggle Studies stacks.

 

“Are you going to take me inside?” he asked, chuckling at her as she realized that she was still watching him. 

 

“Of course,” Hermione said quickly, shaking away her memories of him sitting across the table as she worked. He made her feel like an insipid little girl, lost in a romantic fantasy. It was ludicrous. She had never been so dumbly besotted with the idea of a boy in her life, but there was no denying that the more she was around him, the more he made her want to spend more time in his easy company. She pushed open the greenhouse door, leading him inside. 

 

She felt him follow closely behind her as she stepped inside and led the way past rows of magical plants. She and Draco had taken over a rather large area of the back of this greenhouse, but Professor Sprout insisted that it was fine. Hermione came to a stop at the edge of their work. 

 

“What all do you have in here?” Ben asked, moving passed her to get a closer look. 

 

“That is lettuce,” she said, pointing towards the small green leaves already sprouting. “We have broad beans, tomatoes, asparagus, and cucumbers. Professor Sprout has helped me to charm each area to be appropriate for encouraging growth, but the actual growth isn’t any quicker than it would normally be.” 

“And, what are you going to do with it all?” 

 

“The main lesson is the overarching theme of time that Muggle Studies seems to focus on. Everything takes longer for Muggles. That is the heart of nearly all of the lessons, but I don’t care for the way the text leads you to feel about that.” It was just one more thing about the subject that frustrated her. 

 

“You mean that we ought to pity them?” he asked, his fingers gliding over the edge of one of the beds. 

 

“Yes, exactly. I’m hoping that, through these practical lessons, I can give Draco a sense of why Muggles choose to garden or cook from scratch or make their own clothes. I’m pairing each practical lesson with a more intensive study, of course. He’s been reading about agriculture, food shortages, wars fought over food and water access, but my belief is that the Minister wants him to do more than just pass Muggle Studies.” 

 

“You want him to understand them at a much deeper level,” Ben said, a clear tone of respect in his words. 

 

“Yes,” Hermione sighed, wondering for the hundredth time if she was crazy, fighting a battle that she had lost before she began. 

 

“That is quite a task you’ve take on,” he told her. 

 

“I know,” she admitted, “but, I think he might be capable of it. There are these small moments when I feel like he isn’t who any of us think he is.” 

 

Ben moved back towards her slowly. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.” 

 

“Thank you,” she told him, watching him closely as he closed the gap between them. 

 

“I’m really enjoying getting to know you better, Hermione.” He was less than half a foot from her when his knuckles reached up to brush against her cheek. She closed her eyes at the sensation, letting the part of her brain that was already losing herself in him shut off entirely the logical part that cared that he was a Professor. She needed this. She needed something good and easy, something to push away the nightmares. 

 

“Me too,” she whispered. Her eyes remained shut, but she felt him moving closer. His free hand touched her hip, wrapping around her back. His lips brushed against hers slowly, a whisper of his own. She gasped softly at the unexpected lightness of his touch and sighed as his mouth settled a small kiss at the corner of her mouth. 

 

“I find myself thinking about you a ridiculous amount,” he breathed against her lips. 

 

“Me too,” she said again, her heart was beating rapidly, her fingers moving of their own accord to clutch at the fabric at his sides, pulling him softly towards her. Finally, blissfully, he pressed his lips fully to hers, and she sank into him. Her mind raced with sensations as he softly, slowly slid his tongue across her lips, pulling them apart so that he could explore her more fully. 

 

It was several long minutes later when he pulled back, moving his mouth to her ear, still breathing heavily. “Promise me that I can do this again,” he begged, his words sliding into her ear with an electricity that shot quickly through her body and elicited a soft moan from her lips. 

 

XXX

 

Monday, August 17th, 1998 

 

Draco stretched out on his bed, stomach down. His history text sat open before him. He had been reading it, working his way through twenty dull pages before he heard Hermione return to the common area. Her listened for the sound of her door, but it never came, so she must still be out there, perhaps reading herself. This in itself wasn’t anything to cause alarm or concern. This wasn’t why he had read the same passage four times without comprehending it. The reason for this was that he wanted to go talk to her. 

 

Despite her blood, and the war, and everything between them, over the past month, she had been his only companion. He hated it. Every time he looked at her, or thought of her, which was too often for his own comfort, he was reminded of his original Muggle Studies lessons, the ones his father had given him, the ones that made him hate her for seven years. When she smiled at him, a polite gesture that she probably performed without thinking, his immediate impulse was to sneer or smirk in return. When she spoke to him, her voice steady and controlled, he wanted to snap at her that he didn’t need her help, but that was a lie. Not only was it a lie, the lie ran deeper than needing her help. He wanted it. 

 

Somewhere lost between those moments of forced restraint towards her, Draco had started to depend on her presence. She was broken, shattered just as much as he was, and under his impulse to use that against her was a burning desire to be in her company, to know that he wasn’t alone. When he was alone, he had to think about all of the terrible things he had done and seen. When he was alone, he hid from sleep as if it was waiting to attack. When he was alone, his nightmares woke him in a state of terror. 

 

When he was with her, he was given the opportunity to prove to himself, over and over again, that he could change. It wasn’t easy. He bit his own tongue sometimes to achieve that control, but he was doing it. He was learning about Muggles and their foreign way of life in a new way that went against everything he had ever known, but that was welcome. Everything he had ever known was why his father was in prison, his mother was alone, and he had experienced and witnessed so much terror and pain in his short life. 

 

His idolization for the Dark Lord and his philosophy had taken a quick, cold shower in his sixth year. His mother had been used as leverage against him, and he had truly realized for the first time just how dangerous Voldemort could be, even to a family as pure as the malfoys. He had gone into survival mode after that, trying to do everything possible to stay unnoticed and out of the way. He had known it was pointless to fight or resist. He knew the Dark Lord. He knew what Voldemort was capable of, just as he knew what Potter was capable of. He hadn’t believe that this was even an option, this world without Voldemort, but here he was. When Potter, Granger, and Weasley had shown up in his house, it had temporarily jarred him from his stupor, and he hadn’t known what to do. He had lied then, for what reason though? He still didn’t have an answer. 

 

He wanted to get up and cross the room. He wanted to open the door and settle himself on the couch opposite her. They might talk, or they might just sit in the same room, but it would be so much less lonely than this room, this more comfortable prison that he had taken up residence in. He wanted to do this, but he was sure that Hermione Granger would never see him as a friend. He was so sure that he stayed on his bed, stomach down, and began to read the passage for the fifth time.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 

Saturday, August 22nd, 1998

 

When Ron walked into Lavender’s hospital room on Saturday, she looked up at him brightly from her bed. “Ron!” 

 

“Sorry, I haven’t been by. Auror training.” He strode over to the small table near the window. 

 

“I understand,” she told him. She watched him as he pulled out the old flowers and replaced them with soft blue blooms his mother had given him. He had finally told her where he was going, and who he was visiting, and she insisted that he take the flowers to ‘brighten Lavender’s day.’

 

“I would come in the evenings, but your mum and dad usually come by then,” he explained as he took his seat next to her. 

 

“I know. Really. I’m just glad you’re here.” She had her hair pulled back again, the majority of her neck still covered with the bandage, but there was a tinge of pink in her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and alert, and her smile seemed to cause them to sparkle. 

 

“How are you doing?” he asked. 

 

“Better,” she told him. “They think I’ll be home in the next week or two. I want to go home now. I can lie in bed there just as well as here, but they are still worried. They weren’t expecting me to, well, to last long enough to go home,” she admitted, her smile faltering. 

 

Ron’s brow crinkled at her words. “You should stay until they tell you that it’s safe to go home.” 

 

“I will,” she reached over and put her hand on his, squeezing softly. He returned the pressure and let her fingers rest there in his. “How was training? Tell me all about it. I’m desperate for anything that doesn’t involve bandages and hospital beds.” 

 

Ron dove into an explanation of his week, recounting their training and lessons with excitement. Lavender smiled softly as she listened to him. He watched her face carefully as he spoke, memorizing the expressions there with rapt attention. She was different. There wasn’t a good word to describe what he was seeing, but something about her was utterly new. He searched for ot in the lines of her smiles, the light in her eyes, and the timid way she pulled a loose strand of hair from her face, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact thing. 

 

Monday, August 24th, 1998

 

“This is ridiculous,” Draco mumbled as he stared at Hermione. She was standing with her arms crossed, leaning back against the counter. 

 

“It isn’t,” she insisted. “Some sort of questions about Muggle methods of cooking will be on your exam, I assure you.” He just frowned, looking down at the mess that was supposed to be dough, his expression sullen. Most of the house-elves had made themselves scarce, but a couple were working silently around them, sneaking glances as they did so. Draco was very aware of their eyes on him, as well as Hermione’s. “Come on,” she urged. “We talked through the recipe, you watched me do it, I know you are capable.” 

 

He resisted the urge to snap at her. Instead, he grabbed flour - with his previously clean hands - and spread it across the surfaces of his fingers and palms. He cringed as he did so, but that sensation was nothing compared to the feeling of touching the mixture before him. He immediately felt the desire to go wash his hands, to leave her and go to his room to shower. “This is disgusting,” he declared as his palms pressed into the mess. 

 

“It isn’t disgusting,” she told him, laughing at him. “You can wash your hands when you’re done.” 

 

“You told me they have machines for this, Granger. Why must I do this?” he continued to work, pulling it back towards him and turning the dough as necessary. 

 

“Because, I seriously doubt they allow you to answer that a machine did the work on your exam.” 

 

“Well, maybe they should,” he huffed. 

 

“You know, many Muggles enjoy this way of doing things. They prefer doing the work by hand because they enjoy the process and believe it affects the taste,” she explained. 

 

Draco glanced over at her and rolled his eyes. “It hardly seems worth the effort.” 

 

“My mum and I used to bake by hand. My father bought her a beautiful mixer one year, and we tried it with her vanilla cupcakes, and they weren’t nearly as good. Something was off with the sponge.” 

 

Draco mumbled, “lunatic,” under his breath, but Hermione just smiled, apparently lost in her memories. 

 

“You’ll see,” she said. “This pizza is going to be delicious.” He shook his head, continuing to turn and knead the dough. It wasn’t really that bad any more. It was starting to feel less gross, and he’d settled into a rhythm, but he still longed to wash his skin. 

 

“So, they will have a recipe or what?” he asked, trying to change the subject. 

 

“I’m not sure, honestly, but I figure if we cover several different methods over the year in addition to the book work, you should be set. I’m going to have you bake something next, I think.” 

 

“The regular Muggle Studies students don’t cook anything,” he told her. 

 

“I know, but doing is really the best way to learn anything,” Hermione said. 

 

“Sacrilege! What about all of your books?” he smirked, and she shook her head. 

 

“My books teach me things which I cannot learn through practice or advise on how best to undertake that practice.” 

 

“I’m going to tell them you don’t love them anymore,” he said. He could see her grinning at him. He wasn’t really sure what had gotten into him, but they were having an actual enjoyable conversation. He was teasing her, and she wasn’t offended or snapping at him. It was strange, new territory, but in a way that he liked. It was refreshing to forget the world enough to be able to tease. 

 

After about ten minutes of kneading, Hermione moved over to take the dough from him, feeling it in her own hands. “I think it’s good. Go ahead and spread it on the stone.” She walked him through the steps, keeping her face even as she watched him fumble along, which he appreciated, even if he wouldn’t tell her. He heated the oven before he added toppings, and finally, they slid both pizzas into the contraption, and he moved over to the sink quickly, washing each finger carefully with scalding water. 

 

They cleaned their dishes by hand as they waited, and he thought longingly of the magical ways of cooking he was familiar with which required none of this mess or patience. When they were done, the cheese bubbling and slightly browned, Hermione let him pull them out, and then placed a stasis charm on the pair. She asked the house-elves kindly if they could take some Pumpkin Juice as well, and to his surprise, they took the meal back to their dorms. 

 

“Would you like to play chess maybe?” she asked once they had arrived. “Or, I might have a deck of exploding snap.” 

 

Draco’s mouth fell open, and then closed. “Yes, yeah, chess is fine.” His surprise did not end there. Hermione moved to her room to get her chess set and then sat on the floor next to the small table. He stared at her as she used her wand to cut the pizza into smaller pieces. She placed one of the pieces on one of the plates that the house-elves had sent up, and then set up her chess board. Somewhere in the middle of this task, she seemed to realize he wasn’t moving. 

 

“Are you going to sit?” she asked. 

 

“Are we going to eat on the floor?” he countered. 

 

“Well, I was going to, yeah.” She chuckled, and he shook his head. “Have you never eaten on the floor before?” 

 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Why would I ever need to eat on the floor?”

 

“Sometimes it’s fun,” she said. “And, the food is on a table. Sit down.” 

 

Draco shook his head, and moved in front of the perfectly good sofa to sit on the floor. “You’re very strange, Granger.” 

 

“Try the food,” she urged, ignoring him as she finished setting up the board. Draco leaned in to grab one of the pieces of his pizza and a plate. He looked it over hesitantly and then moved it to his mouth to take a bite. 

 

It was gloriously hot and cheesy, with just a bit of spice from the pepperoni she had forced him to put on top. When he looked up at her, she was smiling widely at his expression. He must have looked like an idiot. 

 

“Good?” she asked. 

 

“It’s all right.” He shrugged, putting the delicious food onto the plate, preparing to destroy her at chess. 

 

Thursday, August 27th, 1998

 

Even on her third visit, Hermione felt utterly odd in Ben’s small quarters. He had three rooms: his main area, which held a desk, bookshelf, seating area, small kitchenette, and dining table, his bedroom, and a bathroom. The door to his bedroom was firmly shut each time they arranged for her to come by, and Hermione was grateful. She felt horrible enough sitting on his couch. That closed door felt like a very firm barrier between a visit and something much more personal. 

 

He made her tea while she sat, and they chatted about how his preparations were going. He had mapped out just over half the year, an amount which he was frustrated with. He had really been aiming to be done with the entire year before the students arrived.

 

“You received the placement so late,” Hermione assured him. “I think you are doing better than can be expected, really.” She took her cup from his hands, and he sat at the other end of the small couch. 

 

“I know that, I really do. I just hoped, well, anyway, the students will be here Tuesday whether I’m done or not, so there isn’t much I can do at this point.” He shrugged, but she could still see the tension in his body. 

 

“Speaking of the students,” Hermione began, setting her cup down on the small end table, “what do you think we should do, I mean, with us.” She flushed, and he chuckled before following her lead, setting down his cup. He moved closer to her on the couch until their legs were touching. He leaned forward and kissed her softly. 

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t want to stop seeing you.” 

 

“Me either,” she agreed. These moments with him were the only moments of true relief she felt. He didn’t ask about the war. He didn’t have a history with her. He didn't need her to fix him. He wanted to talk about books, and teaching, and their futures. He asked her about her N.E.W.T.s preparations, looked over her lesson plans for Draco, and kissed her until she was butter in his hands. She had no desire to give up these moments of freedom. 

 

“I could speak to McGonagall,” he told her.

 

Hermione bit her lip, and shook her head. “I don’t want to add anymore stress on her head. Maybe, for now, it would be best to just try to keep things between the two of us quiet. After I graduate, if we are still … well, then we could start dating more openly.” 

 

“Are you okay with that?” His hand moved towards hers, and his fingers laced between hers. “I’m not ashamed of you, Hermione, and I truly don’t see anything wrong with our relationship. You’re really only a year younger than me, and I’m not your teacher.” 

 

“I know that, but I think some people may try to spin it differently,” she told him. “Anyone I date will immediately be under close scrutiny anyway. I think it’s probably best if we just see where this goes without involving other people.” 

 

“Okay. I can live with that.” He grinned at her and leaned in, pressing his lips to hers again as his hand rested gently on her side. She let her arms wrap around his back, and he shifted, moving closer. She settled back against the pillows, and they readjusted to be more comfortable. He kissed her softly, and she let her mind get lost in his tender embraces. 

 

After nearly half an hour of gentle kisses, sweet sighs, and whispered admirations, he pulled back reluctantly. “I have to get ready for my meeting,” he told her softly. His forehead rested against hers, and she sighed against his lips. 

 

“I know,” she told him. They moved apart, both of them unimpressed with the idea. Ben lifted himself from the couch, smoothing his shirt as Hermione ran a hand over her hair. It was surely a mess. He grabbed her hand and walked her to the door. Her back fell against the wood, and she smiled at him. “I’m really glad you’re here.” 

 

“Me too.” He leaned in, kissing the corner of her mouth. “See you in the library tonight, and dinner this weekend, before the kids get here?” 

 

She nodded, and her hand on the doorknob turned. She could feel his eyes on her as she left the room, and it was such a surreal sensation. She had never been pursued so actively by someone she wanted in return. Ron’s actions had been tentative, hesitant, and then … well, it was over. Cormac had been a mess, someone she had no desire to pursue with any real intent outside of jealousy. Viktor had been sweet and shy. Those first kisses had been wonderful, but then he was gone and letter were not a very good substitute for having someone real in front of you to talk to, laugh with, and share life. If she had been older, and he closer, perhaps she could have had something with him, but it had never worked out. 

 

Ben was here. He was real and solid, and he wanted her. He found her mind intriguing, and when he kissed her, she could almost forget feeling guilty that he had been hired to teach, and she was technically a student. When he kissed her, she felt wanted, and part of her, a part she would deny even to herself, liked that feeling because she was still feeling utterly lost about what had happened between her and Ron. Why hadn’t she been enough? Why had he left her? 

 

Monday, August 31st, 1998

 

Ginny’s trunk lay open on their bed, half filled with clothes. Harry was downstairs, cleaning up from lunch while she got back to work. Each item she placed into the truck filled her with just a little bit more dread. She was leaving him, and she hated it. Things were still not quite right, and Harry still wasn’t sleeping more than an hour at a time. He still hadn’t opened up to her, and she wasn’t sure what that meant for them. She loved him. That was a given, but she was beginning to wonder if love was enough. Was she enough? Harry had experienced pain beyond anything most people were capable of comprehending, but she had been sure that she could do it. She could be his rock, his healer, but she was failing. 

 

She was failing in so many ways, and now she wasn’t sure what the next step would be. She was angry with her mother, and exhausted of trying with Harry, and nothing felt right, nothing was whole. She hoped desperately that something would feel right at Hogwarts, that it could be home again, but at the same time, she feared this was the wrong move. She was leaving Harry, knowing that there was something between them, and she feared that they would let it grow until it tore them apart. 

 

“Gin,” Harry said softly as he walked up behind her. His hands moved around her waist, and his lips touched the skin between her neck and shoulder. 

 

“If I pack, I have to leave,” she whispered back, staring at the trunk. 

 

“We’ll still see each other. I will come as often as I can,” he assured her. 

 

“You won’t sleep.” 

 

His breath was heavy against her neck as he sighed. “I’ll be fine.” Fine. She hated that word. Everyone was fine these days. 

 

“I’m going to miss you,” she muttered. Harry turned her until she faced him. The tip of his nose touched hers, and then his lips were on hers, the familiar hunger feeding their movements. Her hands moved into his hair as the back of her knees hit the mattress. She fell back to the bed, Harry sliding over her, his fingers already pushing up the thin cotton of her shirt. 

 

She was sure she should stop him, try to talk about what was going on behind those green eyes, but she couldn’t force herself to do it. Talking was hard. Trying to help him through whatever he was going through was nearly impossible, but this, the feel of skin on skin and hot breath against her mouth was easy. This they had mastered quickly, losing their very selves in the sensations of their flesh. They were artists at work, devouring each other with such a perfect rhythm until they were two huddled masses, tangled in one pile, trying desperately to catch their breath. 

 

In the aftermath, Harry leaned even closer, his hand grazing naked skin. His lips found her ear. “I love you,” he whispered. 

 

She closed her eyes, closed out the world beyond the heat of his body, and snuggled deeper into him. She forgot about her half empty trunk which they had knocked to the floor. She forgot about his inability to communicate. She forgot about her mother, and her backwards thinking, her insistence that Ginny must live and love precisely the way she had. She forgot about leaving in the morning. She chose to remember this feeling of satisfied contentment as Harry’s arms surrounded her, and his lips whispered delicious words in her ear. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you are enjoying this story! I will be shooting to update once a week, but life may have other plans. Please leave kudos or comments to let me know what you think. 
> 
> Also, you can find me on tumblr at goldensnitch-18.
> 
> xoxo  
> Meg


	8. Chapter Eight

 

**Tuesday, September 1st, 1998**

 

Ginny was shaking in his arms. He had them wrapped firmly around her back as she held him tightly, her face buried in his chest. He was inhaling the sweet smell of her shampoo, eyes closed, as she shook softly. He knew Neville and Luna had moved a few steps down the line, their conversation meeting his ears in snippets. 

 

“The whole train was full of them one year. Dad said they took his telescope and three of his socks.” 

  
“Yeah?” Neville asked. “Maybe that’s what always happens to mine. Gran’s always on me about it.” 

 

It was so ordinary it nearly hurt. Luna chattering on about the year the Nargles infested the train stole socks, and Neville in trouble with his Gran. Except they were leaving, and he was staying. Ginny, Neville, and Luna were off to join Hermione at Hogwarts, and he would be home and attending training. 

 

Beside him, someone cleared their throat. Harry opened his eyes to look over, finding Mr. Weasley standing awkwardly on the platform. Harry kissed Ginny’s hair softly and pulled back from her. She wiped at her damp eyes and looked over at her father. 

 

“Dad,” she whispered. She chewed at her bottom lip and watched her father carefully. 

 

“Hello, love,” he moved in, pulling her into a hug. Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, not quite sure what to do now. Ginny hadn’t spoken to either of her parents in over a month now, which meant that he hadn’t either, but she hugged her father as tightly as she had been holding him moments before. “You better go,” Arthur told her as he took a step back. Ginny sighed, looking back at the train. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Write us?” he asked, and she nodded. Harry doubted very much that Ginny would write her mother. She was too stubborn, but hopefully, she would reach out to her father. He loved her for wanting to be with him, to help him through this, but they were her family. They needed each other. 

 

Ginny moved the two steps back to Harry and kissed him on the mouth, ignoring her father’s presence, or perhaps because of it. “Love you,” she murmured against his lips, and then she was gone, walking towards the train with Neville and Luna who waved back at Harry and Mr. Weasley. 

 

“You can come stay with us, you know,” Arthur said, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“What?” Harry glanced up at him, and the older wizard smiled softly. 

 

“You’re looking at her like your very heart just leaped out of your body to go to Hogwarts without you. If you want to come stay with us, you are welcome anytime.”

 

Harry nodded, sure that his fear and despair had somehow snuck onto his face. “I appreciate that.” He was grateful that Mr. Weasley wasn’t upset with him for not fighting Ginny harder to go mend fences with her mother. He had been selfish, and he had kept her to himself as long as he could, and now she was leaving. 

 

“I, well, Molly and I trust you, Harry, she just worries that Ginny is so young,” he stared at the train now, watching Luna bounce up the steps. 

 

“I know,” Harry assured him. He thought about it all the time. In this moment, he couldn’t imagine wanting anything but that beautiful girl, but she had just turned seventeen and he eighteen. They had a whole life ahead of them, one that would hopefully be significantly less boring than the one he lived thus far. Lost in her red curls, and her smooth skin, and her soft whispers, it had been easy to consider those words:  _ marriage, commitment, engagement _ . The idea had pulled at him with a consistent tug at his gut. His parents had married young, and so had hers. 

 

In the light of day, those same words seemed just short of crazy. Ginny was off to Hogwarts, not even done with school, and Harry was in Auror training. They would once again be separated, only to see each other once every couple months or so. This summer had been the most time they had spent together consistently, and there was something between them. Harry could feel it, but he couldn’t fix it. He wanted to, but he didn’t know what to say or what to do, so he kept his mouth shut, and he sent her off to Hogwarts, his heart out of his body. 

 

“Come on,” Arthur interrupted his thoughts as the train began to slowly move. “I’ll take you to lunch.” 

 

**Tuesday, September 1st, 1998**

 

Dinner was over. Hermione hadn’t attended. Instead, she sat in the common room of their dormitory and waited. Draco sat across from her, both of them reading. They had taken turns glancing up throughout the night, looking towards the door as they grew more and more anxious. She shifted in her seat multiple times, unable to get comfortable. 

 

Just as she was losing the ability to even feign reading her book, the door to the common area opened. Professor McGonagall entered the room followed by Dean Thomas, Hannah Abbot, Mandy Brocklehurst, Neville Longbottom, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott. They filed in, quickly moving to seats or to stand away from the door, all obviously waiting for McGonagall to say something. 

 

“I just want to take a moment to tell you all how proud of you I am. No matter what happened before this, you have decided to come back here and prepare for your N.E.W.T.s. Your other Professors and I are so pleased to see you back. We want you to feel comfortable and thought you may be better off here where you each have your own room. Please let your Head of House know if you need anything.” She let her eyes trails over each of them. “I-I’m sure that each of you has experienced things that may make it difficult to forgive or to get along, but I implore you all to do your best to start over. Give the other people in this room a chance to show you that they are not entirely who you think they may be, or that they may even be a friend to you.” Hermione tried to stop her eyes from flicking towards Draco, but it was no use. Brown met gray, and he immediately looked away. They were making progress. She was sure of it. They had laughed the other night as they lounged on this floor. That had been when it was just the two of them. When she had essentially been the only person he had in the world to communicate with. Would that all change now? 

 

She looked over to Blaise and Theo. She wasn’t entirely sure how close to them Draco was. She had seen him with them a few times, usually in the library, but not nearly as much as Goyle and …

 

Hermione shut her eyes, willing her mind not to think about it. This never worked. Instead, she saw the eager flames dancing towards her. She could still smell it. Her eyes popped open and met his again. He looked away just a moment slower this time. She wondered if that was concern in the corner of his mouth. She moved her gaze back to Blaise and Theo as McGonagall spoke in the background. Blaise was leaning against the mantle, arms crossed, eyes glazed. Theo was sitting in the chair beside him, his body relaxed against the soft cloth. Neither of them seemed particularly evil. She had met evil. Evil had carved into her, taking a piece of her with it.

 

She turned back to the Headmistress in time to hear her ask if anyone had any questions for her. As the students rose to be shown their rooms, Hermione made her way to her own bedroom and softly shut the door before falling down to the floor as gracefully as she could manage. She hadn’t wanted to come because of him. In the beginning, she had only worried about Draco Malfoy and what being around him would be like. She had never anticipated that this night might bring the ever present sense of panic bubbling to the surface. She tried to breathe in slow controlled breaths, but within minutes blood was pounding in her ears, her air coming in shallow, painful bursts, as the room spun around her. 

 

**Wednesday, September 2nd, 1998**

 

Theodore Nott was lounging in the window seat, the pane pushed up to let out the smoke from the cigarette held limply between two fingers. He had picked up the terrible habit two summers ago in a fit of rebellion. As far as Draco knew, his father had never seen his smoke, so he wasn’t sure how effective it was. One hand rested in Theo’s mess of dark hair, elbow on his bent knee as he stared at the rain falling down outside. Across the room, Blaise Zabini sat in an armchair, his feet up on Draco’s trunk, hands behind his head. His eyes were closed as he listened to the play by play from the wireless on Draco’s desk. Draco sat on his bed, legs crossed, a book open in his lap. 

 

Theo’s eyes moved away from the window. “What are you reading?” he asked. 

 

“Something from Granger,” Draco answered, not moving his eyes away from the text. 

 

“How’s that going?” Blaise asked. “Can’t be a fun experience.” 

 

Draco glanced up to find them both looking expectantly at him. He shrugged. “It’s fine.” Theo shook his head as he lifted his cigarette to his lips. 

 

Blaise scowled. “Of all the people McGonagall could have had tutor you, it had to be the Mudblood.” 

 

“At least, she didn’t bring her boyfriends back with her,” Theo told them. “Fucking Potter is off learning how to protect us all.” His eyes rolled at the thought.

 

“I feel safer already,” Blaise drawled. Draco stared down at the words, none of which were actually making any particular sense to him. He was on edge having the two Slytherins back at Hogwarts. He had never considered either one of them to be close friends.

 

Theo was traditionally quiet and mostly kept to himself, but they were now both suddenly fatherless. Draco had at least seen his mother for those few short moments at his trial. Theo’s father has been put in Azkaban, and his mother had been dead for years, a topic he wasn’t fond of discussing. Draco had known Theo nearly all of his life. His family was not as notable as the Malfoys for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that the Nott fortune had dwindled under the guidance of some unfortunate ancestors and the rumors surrounding Mrs. Nott’s death were “distasteful,” as Lucius would say. Despite this, the Nott name still meant  _ something. _

 

Thus, Draco and Theo had been thrust together on many an occasion to eat puffs in the corner of insufferable gatherings while they complained about their dress robes. These were also the moments when Draco learned that Theodore Nott was incredibly well read. He devoured books the way Draco devoured quidditch magazines. Draco was fairly sure that given a normal childhood, Theo could have challenged Granger’s intelligence. As it was, he did the bare minimum to get by, spending a quarter of the time on his work that anyone else in their dorm did. Even so, he still managed to quietly achieve better marks than the rest of them more often than not.

 

Blaise Zabini was an entirely different situation. His mother had made her sizable fortune by marrying men with a proclivity for early graves. Draco wasn’t entirely sure where Blaise’s blood status fell. He claimed that he was as pure as the Malfoys. As very little was known about his father, there was no way to verify this. Lucius was fine with Draco maintaining a loose friendship with “the boy,” but had reiterated time and again that he was beneath them. 

 

Blaise was nearly always seeking to move up, achieve more, and that, Draco was sure, was why he had returned. He needed his N.E.W.T.s. scores to do that. The Ministry wasn’t handing out jobs to Slytherins whose mothers had moved them to Paris for a year to avoid the war and been too nervous to let him attend another school. 

 

Theo and Blaise both seemed more comfortable in his company than they ever had before. Draco had always been nearly untouchable, and now … 

 

Now, he was a Death Eater stuck at Hogwarts under the watchful eyes of Minerva McGonagall and the tutelage of Hermione Granger. He was reliant on a Muggleborn for his freedom and safety. Theo had surely experienced things Draco wouldn’t wish upon anyone, but he had escaped the war with his forearm blemish free. For the first time in his life, Draco wasn’t sure where he fell in the hierarchy of this room, and he wasn’t sure if he cared. 

 

**Thursday, September 3rd, 1998**

 

They were sitting beside each other in the library. There was nearly half a foot between their knees, but with multiple eyes on them, it felt like they were touching. Draco had never been so aware of her before. Every flip of her hair, every sound she let slip past her lips, every easy smile tossed in his direction drew his attention.  

 

They were too comfortable. Somehow, someway, in the past month and a half, they had begun to be different people. People that weren’t afraid of each other. People that could let their sleeves touch without jumping. People that could speak to each other without venom. People who could sit on the floor and eat pizza together while they played chess. It had been so easy to let the rest of the world fade to the background when no one was watching. 

 

Now, everyone was watching, and the world was caving in on them. The library seemed to have suddenly become the most popular spot in Hogwarts. It didn’t help that it had been pouring rain for the last three days, or that news of their tutoring sessions had spread like Fiendfyre, enrapturing the entire student body, who apparently had nothing better to do than spy on Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy while they discussed Shakespeare on a Thursday morning. 

 

She was talking, her hands moving animatedly, her knee bobbing this way and that, moving closer to his and then back away, her hair continuing to exist in its own universe as she spoke, seemingly unaffected by the idiots, possibly second years, in yellow, gaping at them through the stacks. He glanced at them, sure to deepen his scowl, and then back at her. They seemed unaffected. Granger, however, finally seemed to have caught on. She had stopped talking and followed his eyes to the children, who scattered in the path of  _ her _ gaze. Apparently, the ex-Death Eater scowling at you was just fine, but Hermione Granger was scary. What the fuck kind of backward world was he living in? 

 

“They don’t mean anything by it,” she said, her voice quiet as she leaned closer to him.  _ Great.  _ Now, they were whispering to each other. He could hear Blaise and Theo already. 

 

“I’m never going to be able to concentrate long enough to learn anything like this,” Draco told her, and he started to pack his bag. This was pointless. All he was thinking about was how they looked to the idiots watching them. 

 

“It will calm down,” she insisted. He would have bet a Galleon on the fact that her hand twitched towards his to stop him from packing before she thought better of it.  _ Thank Merlin. _

 

“No, it won’t, Granger. You’re you, and I’m me. This will never stop being a freak show,” he stood, pulling his bag over his shoulder. He heard her quicken her own packing behind him as he begun to walk away from their table. 

 

Hermione was breathing heavily when she caught up to him. “You could have waited,” she said sourly.

 

“I’m not meeting in there again,” he told her, ignoring her protests. There was no way he was going to make it look like he had been waiting for her. She was mad. 

 

“Fine, I’ll find somewhere else, okay? We can use my room. None of them can get in our dorm.” She adjusted her bag, and he realized she was still trying to shove books inside it from their session in the library.  

 

Draco actually groaned at her. “Yes, Granger. Let’s lock ourselves in your room for hours on end and see if that helps the rumors. Merlin, you are a -” 

 

“Don’t finish that sentence,” she snapped, cutting him off. “I assumed the rest of the eighth years might be a little too busy to gossip about our riveting discussion of theater, but if you think it will be an issue, I will find an empty classroom.” 

 

“That would be best,” he agreed, trying not to think about how fucking innocent she was even after everything she had been through. Blaise himself would have started the rumors that they were shagging if they began locking themselves in her room. He had no doubt in his mind. This new dynamic they were dealing with was still unsettled, and Draco suspected Blaise would very much like to come out as the new leader of their group. 

 

“I’ll find something and let you know.” Suddenly, Hermione stopped, placing her hand on Draco’s forearm. He froze, nearly tripping at the sudden end to his steps and the sensation of her skin on his. She bit her lip, looked up at him, and took a deep breath as he watched her carefully. “I know this is going to be a shit year, but I’m really trying,” she said, her voice soft and even. 

 

Draco glanced down the empty hallway. “I know,” he muttered, not able to meet her eye. 

 

“Just … don’t take it out on me when everyone else is acting like idiots. Okay?” She squeezed his arm softly, and he nearly ripped it back at the shiver that ran up his shoulder. He had been closed up in this school too long, and it was only the first week of the year. 

 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Okay.” She took her fingers back from his arm. 

  
“Okay,” she said again and began moving towards their dorms once again. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

 

**Saturday, September 12th, 1998**

 

“You must be Ronald,” Lavender’s mother said after the door opened to let him in. She was a slender woman with short hair. Her smile was not quite as warm as his mother’s but welcoming nonetheless. 

 

“Er, yes,” he said, trying to not look awkward, but surely failing. 

 

“Lavender is in her room. I can show you where it is.” Her eyes fell down to the flowers he was holding. He had just realized that Lavender might no longer have a vase that needed filling. 

 

“Thanks,” he told her. How much exactly did this woman know about him? That they had dated? That he had been visiting in the hospital? That for some reason Lavender was the only person he felt like himself around at the moment? Probably not that last one, actually. He would have had to tell Lavender that first,  _ hopefully _ . The flowers surely weren’t helping if he was trying to discourage those types of thoughts. 

 

He followed her through the house until she stopped in front of an open door. “Here you are,” she motioned to the door, and he grinned  _ like an idiot  _ as he passed her. He heard the door pull shut behind him as his eyes fell on Lavender. She was sitting in bed again in a baggy white shirt with a blanket over her crossed legs. She looked up from a magazine as he walked into the room, her eyes lighting up, but his own eyes had fallen to her neck. The bandage was gone. He inhaled deeply at the sight and instantly regretted it. Her fingers moved up to her neck, hovering above her large wound, futilely attempting to hide it from him as her face fell. 

 

“N-No.” He moved quickly toward her, stammering out his words. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have.” 

 

“I know it’s bad.” Her eyes slid down to focus on the small flowers on her blanket. 

 

“I’m an idiot. I should have expected.” He was on the bed now, resting on the edge. His hand reached up and wrapped his fingers around hers. She let him pull their joined hands down to the bed and reveal the puffy, pink scarring. 

 

“Bloody hell, you’re incredible,” he told her, voice full of awe and wonder. 

 

She laughed nervously. “What?” 

 

“You’re just … This happened, and you still smile when I walk in the door. You still laugh and make me …” He stopped, and she let her eyes travel up his chest until blue met blue, their gaze locked. She waited a few moments, but he didn’t continue. 

 

“What?” she asked. He could feel the red flush of his embarrassment up his neck and across his cheeks. She smiled at the sight. “Ron,” she said his name as if she knew every emotion running through his body at that moment, and he was sure that she did. They had been here before, back when they had been whole and stupid and had no idea what they really needed or wanted from one another. Could they be different now? He was sure as hell willing to try, willing to hope that they had learned from their mistakes. 

 

He leaned in, closing the space between them. The flowers fell to the bed, and his newly freed hand moved up to rest gently on the unblemished back of her neck where he was sure not to hurt her by softly pulling her closely. She giggled as his nose brushed hers, and then he was gingerly kissing her as she wrapped the fingers of her free hand around his hip. 

 

“I won’t break,” she murmured against his lips. She pulled her other hand from his and settled it at his waist as well. Everything about this was simultaneously familiar and new. 

 

“You smell like lilacs,” he responded, and then she was laughing against his mouth, and he joined her for a few moments before his mouth fell on hers again. She pulled at him with gentle suggestion, and let her body fall back until she was on her side, and he was lying beside her, their limbs entwined, flowers forgotten beneath his thigh. They readjusted, and his hand ended up on her hip, hers in his hair. 

 

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he told her. Her only response was her deepening the pressure  against his lips as her hand moved under his shirt, touching skin to skin. 

 

**Tuesday, September 15th, 1998**

 

Hermione had found them an empty classroom and cleared their usage with McGonagall, explaining the trouble they were dealing with in the library. Each day, they took over the Professor’s desk at the head of the room for their lessons. It was working much better than stares and whispers of the library, but now Draco was facing a different struggle, an entirely unexpected struggle. 

 

In the library, he had looked at her from the outside in, seeing them together, and he couldn’t turn it off. Her hair, her knees, the soft flush up her neck when she laughed, her habit of tapping softly on the table as she waited for him to respond … all of these things distracted him as they worked, further confusing him. 

 

They had been in classes for about two weeks, and even that was somewhat surreal. Just over two months ago, he had been locked in Azkaban, sure that he would be spending the rest of his life there. He could still feel the dirt on his skin, the utter sense of emptiness about his life that had engulfed his every moment.

 

And, now, he was here. He was sitting next to Hermione Granger, learning about Muggles in a way that he never expected, and trying to avoid staring at her in class.  _ If father knew. _ He was in constant battle, trying to somehow forge the two versions of himself, Draco before the War and Azkaban and after, but it was proving impossible. This version of himself was lost and confused. Everything he had ever been told was, at the very best, a cruel twisting of the truth. 

 

If he was going to be honest with himself, part of him had always known that there couldn’t truly be something inherently inferior about Hermione Granger, except, perhaps, her hair. She was brilliant, but that brilliance went far beyond books. She mastered in moments spellwork that took most weeks to exact. She was a source of frustration and conflict inside of him from the very beginning, but he had denied that part of him. Facing it would have meant accepting that he was not himself superior to anyone, and that was unacceptable. Pre-war Draco loved his status and everything that came with it, especially the power. He watched his father bring Ministry officials to their knees, and he had wanted that ability. His parents had assured him that he deserved it. It wasn’t until he was in too deep that he realized exactly what that path truly meant. As he remembered how painful those realizations had been, Draco rubbed subconsciously at the scar across his chest. 

 

Suddenly, a hand was waving in front of his face, pulling him from his wandering mind. “Are you in there today?” 

 

“Yes,” he answered. “Of course.” 

 

“I’ve asked you three times if you understood what I was saying, and you’ve ignored me.” Her lips tensed, and he stared at them. 

 

“Yes, definitely,” he assured, but she shook her head. 

  
“If you need, we can take a break,” she suggested. As she spoke, she pulled her arms up above her head, stretching her body. He was sure that she had no idea the effect she was able to have on him now, but the supple curve of her breast under her white button down was cruelty at its best.   

 

“That might be good,” he pushed his chair back from the desk, moving away from her. He stretched his own body as he faced away from her, trying to push the images away from his mind.  _ It’s completely normal to fantasize about girls. She’s just another girl. _ Which was true, but lately every time he closed his eyes in the shower as his hand moved down his body he remembered the way her skirt slid up her thigh as she bounced her leg or the day she had worn a dark bra, and he hadn’t told her that he could see it through her shirt after she pulled off her sweater. His mind also created other images, pulling them from his imagination. Afterward, he always felt wrong. Wrong for using her. Wrong for feeling this way about her. 

 

“So, I wanted to ask you something anyway,” she said behind him. 

 

Draco turned back to face her. “Yeah?” 

 

She reached up to pull her hair behind her ear, and he watched for the flush as she smiled nervously. “It’s my birthday on Sunday.” 

 

“Oh, okay.” He wasn’t really sure why this would be relevant to him. It wasn’t like he could buy her something. He had zero access to his accounts. 

 

“Some of us are going down to the village. I thought, maybe, you might want to go. You could ask your friends to come if you want.” She rushed the words out of her mouth, and he stared, disbelieving. She was asking him to go to the village for her birthday. He wasn’t even sure what that meant. For a moment, he wondered if she was asking him because … no. That was stupid. 

 

“I, uh,” he fumbled with words, trying to decide what to do. His gut reaction was to go, but then he immediately remembered that would involve talking to her friends. “I’m not sure your friends would want me there.” 

 

“Well, it’s my birthday,” she countered, “and, I don’t know, I thought maybe that we had, somehow, sort of, started …” She trailed off, and he just stared. What was she not saying? She covered her eyes with her hand and laughed. “This is stupid. I’m being an idiot.” She dropped the hand back to her lap. “I thought we might be friends now, and you might want to come.” 

 

“Oh.” His hand moved up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I mean, I think so, too.” 

 

She laughed again. “It’s actually been really strange having everyone else here.” 

 

“Yeah. It has,” he agreed. 

 

“So will you come?” she asked. 

 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. It might just end badly. You should go with your friends and have a good time.” He watched her frown, but he knew that he was right. 

 

“Okay, yeah.” She shrugged and turned back to her work. He was tempted to ask her if they could do something else on Sunday, but that was a line he was unable to cross.  

 

**Sunday, September 19th, 1998**

 

The common area was empty when Hermione returned from Hogsmeade with Neville and Hannah. They wished her a happy birthday one last time, and both retreated behind closed doors as she did the same. 

 

She moved over to hang her jacket, wondering when Ginny would sneak back into the castle that night, and if she was going to end up in any trouble. She understood that she and Harry missed one another, but she was now off grounds after curfew, and that wasn’t something Hermione could support. She shook her head at the pair as she kicked off her shoes, and moved towards the bathroom. 

 

She stripped down to her skin and soaked in the hot shower, washing away the day. It had been a good day, but she was ready for bed. Harry and Ron had come up, and she had felt awkward. Everything was still wrong between them. Something had fallen out of balance. It had happened before, and somehow they had always found a way to fix it. She hoped that this would be the same, that time could heal this strain. She stood in the shower until she could no longer resist the pull of warm sheets, and stepped out. She dressed again and walked back out to her room. She was halfway to her bed when she saw them. Four vanilla cupcakes on a white plate. The frosting was chocolate, and obviously inexpertly applied. She stopped abruptly, staring at them.  _ Something was off with the sponge. _

 

After several long moments, she stepped forward, and grabbed the plate, lifting it from the bed. She crossed the room to her door and pulled it open. The common area was still empty as she knocked on his door softly. He opened it moments later, staring at her with his brow crinkled. 

 

“Did you make these?” she asked him. 

 

“Well, the elves helped,” he told her. He had made her cupcakes. Draco ‘this is ridiculous’ Malfoy had gone to the kitchens alone and made her cupcakes for her birthday. 

 

She smiled broadly and looked past him into his room. There was a book lying open on his bed. “Can I come in? We could share them.”  

 

He looked into the empty common room and shrugged. “Sure.” He moved back, letting her walked past him and then shut the door behind her. Hermione moved over to his bed and climbed up onto it before setting the plate before her. She watched Draco walk towards her, close the book, and set it on his nightstand, and then he sat across from her. Once he was settled, she reached down for one of the cupcakes and handed it to him. His fingers touched hers as he took it and something flashed across his face that she didn’t quite understand. 

 

“Did you have a good birthday?” he asked as she reached for one of her own. 

 

“Yeah. Harry came up. He and Ginny are probably still off somewhere now.” 

 

“She’s out past curfew?” He cocked a brow at her.

 

“I guess.” 

 

“Saving the world really does come with its perks,” he mumbled, and she chose to ignore him in favor of biting into her dessert. 

 

“Oh,” she moaned as her tongue tasted the sweet flavor of the cupcake. “These are wonderful. Really,” she told him after she had finished her first bite. 

 

“It’s okay,” he said after trying his own. 

 

“What did you do today, other than sneak down to the kitchens and bake?”

 

“Studied. That’s pretty much all I do now.” He shrugged and took another bite. 

 

“You should really find something else to do. Your brain needs a break every so often.” 

 

“Granger telling me to stop studying. Never thought I would see the day.” 

 

“Ha. Ha,” she feigned annoyance. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be working hard, just that sometimes you should do something else for a bit to recharge.” 

 

“Like chess or eating cupcakes?” he asked, his smirk free of its usual malice. 

  
“Yes, exactly like that,” she agreed. 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

 

Saturday, September 26th, 1998 

 

“These look wonderful,” Hermione told Ben as she examined the beds his third years had set up. 

 

“You should have heard them going on,” he laughed. “You would think they have forgotten that Muggles don’t have magic.” 

 

“It’s easy to forget sometimes,” Hermione told him, “even for me. It’s funny how our minds work.” She smiled sadly as she remembered a time so long ago that she had forgotten she could produce light with magic. Ron - of all people - had reminded her. That had been back at the beginning. They had been so young, had no idea of what was to come. 

 

“It’s hard to imagine you forgetting anything,” Ben said. He was standing over her and Draco’s plants, observing them. “How is this going?” 

 

Hermione sighed deeply, remembering the boy who sat across from her on his bed, the boy who sat beside her every day, lost in his thoughts. “Fine. Honestly, I think he may be more damaged than any of us.” 

 

Ben frowned up at her, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” 

 

“He’s just … I don’t think he knows who he is anymore, you know? It’s hard. I know it is. I feel it too, but for him, it’s like he’s trying to change so much of who he is that I think he’s really struggling.” 

 

“You figured this all out from Muggle Studies?” he asked, and she heard the hesitation in his voice, a hesitation she would have called jealousy had it come from Ron. 

 

“He doesn’t have anyone else. I think I’m genuinely the only person he really talks to, and he just seems really” - she searched for a word while she stared out the glass - “broken.”

 

“Some other Slytherins came back,” he said, as if this could fix Draco. 

 

“I know they did, but something is odd about it. I don’t really get it, but the three of them seem to constantly be fighting over something invisible. I can’t tell if he wants to be fighting for it or not.” She sighed as she closed the distance between them. 

 

“You shouldn’t take it on yourself to fix him. He’s been terrible to you.”

 

“He was,” she said simply, having not forgotten the way he used to be, the things he used to say and do, but it was all too easy for someone on the outside to see things in black and white. She had lived in shades of gray, and now her life was filled with them. Draco had become a mystery to her. He seemed to rely on her for something, and she almost missed the way he used to be, the confidence he had once had. Perhaps because it was so easy to see the same things in herself, in her friends. Harry couldn’t sleep. Ron had suddenly decided that Lavender needed him. Ginny was torturing herself at the Quidditch pitch so much already that Hermione wasn’t sure they even needed to have any matches to name a Quidditch Cup winner. 

 

And, Hermione. She was having panic attacks behind closed doors and waking up screaming at least twice a week. She knew that everything she was saying about Draco could also be said about her. She had changed, and she couldn’t even quite identify the ways that it had occurred. She didn’t have anyone to talk to either. This conversation was probably the closest she had been to actually discussing the war with Ben, and they were still new, still getting to know each other while not letting anyone know that they were doing so. Ginny was so exhausted by dinner every night that Hermione wasn’t sure she would make it to bed most days. The one exception to this had been Hermione’s birthday when Harry had come to visit. Ginny had actually smiled that day. 

 

Somehow, Draco Malfoy had become the person she talked to every day. She wasn’t even sure how that was possible, but it was the truth. She had tried to imagine what that must be like for him, to have the one person he was given to talk to be a contradiction of everything he had ever believed. She tried to be understanding of that. She tried to make things easy for him, to hide the things that she was dealing with. She wondered if he knew, if he realized that they were the same. 

 

“You’re a better person than I am,” Ben said as his hand found her hip. 

 

She smiled, shaking her head. “I don’t know about that,” she told him, and his lips brushed gently against hers before he pulled her closer. She rested her hands on his chest, trying to push her thoughts of Draco out of her mind as he kissed her. 

 

Saturday, September 26th, 1998 

 

Draco had known not to go to the library. He knew it would just end badly. He had been steadily avoiding the whole place by having Granger grab books for him, but then Theo and Blaise had to get involved. They had a Charms essay to work on, and Theo had insisted that it would be no big deal. “It’s been almost a month, mate,” he had said. “You can’t still be that interesting to them,” which was apparently incorrect. 

 

He had let them convince him to go, and the three of them had found a table in a corner nearly surrounded by shelves and started on the essay. Less than ten minutes after they arrived, students were staring through the stacks. He tried to ignore them, knowing that he would eventually have to deal with people. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life hiding, but then two Slytherin seventh year girls had walked by, not bothering to lower their voices as they discussed his mother loudly. 

 

“She tried to get an invitation to lunch. Mother was horrified, of course. Can you imagine letting a Malfoy in the house?” 

 

Theo’s fingers were digging into his arm in a single moment, locking him into his seat until the girls were far enough away that they could no longer hear them. 

 

“I’m fucking leaving,” Draco hissed, pushing Theo away before he started packing up his work. 

 

Blaise and Theo had enough self-preservation to keep their mouths shut until he was gone, walking quickly out of the library. He needed space. He needed somewhere to think, somewhere no one else would be without having to walk back through whatever idiots were loitering around in the common area of their dorm. He didn’t trust his own actions right now. He didn’t trust himself not to overreact. He thought of his mother, her demure dress at his trial, the desperate look in her eyes. There was no way that she was begging for lunch invitations. That was not who his mother was. She would starve before she begged for a crumb. He was sure that the girl had been lying, trying to rub in the way that his life and family had fallen apart, but it didn’t make it easier to handle. His mother had her own faults, but she loved her family. She only wanted them safe. She didn’t deserve to be treated like this, not after everything else she had already endured. 

 

His feet carried him quickly, moving without specific direction, taking him out of the castle, away from everyone else, and then he knew where he should go. He knew where noone else would be. He nearly ran, his bag hitting his thigh with each pace closer and closer to the greenhouses. He could find some work to do, or just sit there, just be away from everyone. 

 

He drew up short as soon as he noticed the figures in the greenhouse with their project. It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t Sprout. Who else would - 

 

It was Granger. He took a step closer, and then another. He could see her profile, but the man’s back was turned. Still, he was fairly sure that it was Professor Crowley, Ben as she called him. As he watched, Ben took a few steps, closing the gap between them. He moved closer, watching as Ben leaned down, as his lips fell to hers. Something primal roared within him. 

 

Monday, September 27th, 1998 

 

Hermione was smiling when she walked into the greenhouse. She lifted her bag from her shoulder and dropped it down on the ground. “Morning!” she told him brightly. 

 

Draco wondered if she had been with him this morning, if that was why she was so happy. He glanced over at her, but quickly drew his attention back to the work at hand. He just kept seeing her here in this very space, that idiot's hands on her, his lips on her. The trowel in his hand snapped, and he resisted the urge to scream at the accidental magic. It had been a long time since he had been that out of control. 

 

“I didn’t see much of you this weekend,” she continued as she pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it onto her bag. She rolled her white sleeves up to the elbow, and shoved, and pulled, and wrestled with her hair until it was captured in a messy bun on top of her head. She grabbed her own materials from the small work table she had left them on previously and headed towards him. 

 

Draco made a small noncommittal noise in response to her words. She was close enough now that he could see her bite her lip, likely in confusion. He knew that he was being petty. He had no right to be angry. He had no right to feel like his insides were boiling, but he did. She had kissed that idiot. Who the hell was he anyway? Just some daft bloke who managed to score a decent N.E.W.T. in Muggle Studies and was stupid enough to take a job no one else wanted. 

 

“Are you okay?” She had lifted her gloves and started to pull one on. He shrugged, moving further down the bed to pull at leaves that needed pruned. If they had just used magic this wouldn’t even need done. “Did something happen?” 

 

“No,” he barked. She tensed, and he knew he should apologize, tell her it was nothing, but those hands had been on her, pulling her closer, and Draco had wanted to kill him. The amount of anger he had left in his body had surprised him as he had watched. The amount of emotion he felt towards her in that moment had been terrifying. He wanted her. It was so fucking wrong, and he knew it. He had been a monster to her. He had been on the wrong side. He had been vile. And, now, he was - well who the fuck knew what he was now - but somewhere along the way, he had lost his grip on who they really were. 

 

He had fucking baked for her - baked - with house elves. What the actual fuck had consumed him, made him feel like that was a normal reaction to Hermione Granger’s birthday? She had asked him to go out with her and her friends though. He had felt like he should do something, so he did, but then he asked the elves to leave them on her bed so she could pretend not to realize they were from him if she wanted to, and she hadn’t done that at all. She had shown up at his door after curfew and asked to come sit on his bed and talk in her pyjamas. 

 

Maybe, none of it was real. Maybe, it was just a reaction to her being the only person he really had in the world right now, because there was no way fucking Blaise and Theo counted right now. They were just making everything harder. Maybe, this thing with her was convenient and that was what was making him feel this way, but it sure as fuck felt real, and he couldn’t just stand here knowing that she was with someone and pretend like nothing had changed. 

 

“Don’t shut me out,” she said softly, and he laughed. He shook his head and ripped his gloves off, dropping them in the dirt. 

 

“I’m not the one keeping secrets!” he roared, knowing it was stupid. She owed him nothing. She didn’t even have to help him with his Muggle Studies, but she was, and he was shouting at her in return because she had the audacity to get involved with someone, someone he had teased her about. You like him. She was staring at him with her eyes wide, and he wondered if she was seeing him the way she used to, the way he had been before he forgot who he was. 

 

“I don’t know what I did! Just tell me,” she pleaded. 

 

Draco took in the sight of her desperate confusion, trying to figure out what to say to her, how to put words to what had happened, but the truth was nothing had happened, and that was the worst part. He had created something in his head, let himself get so turned around that he had started to see her in a way that he never should. She was well within her rights to be kissing whomever she liked, to have whoever she liked touching her with - Fuck! He let out a heavy breath of exasperation as he ran a hand over his face. 

 

He felt the gentle weight of her fingers on his shoulder. “Draco,” she whispered softly, and he lost all sense of control. He dropped his hand as he turned, letting it meet her waist and pull her firmly against him. She let out a squeak of surprise, and then his mouth descended on her, claiming those damn lips as his. 

 

Monday, September 28th, 1998

 

Draco’s arm at her waist had been the very last thing Hermione had expected. The noise she let out before he was kissing her was undignified at the very least, but she found that she had no ability to care. His mouth was on hers, and it was hungry for her. She reflexively moved her hands up his chest and neck to settle at the back of his head, as his tongue darted against her bottom lip. Her lips parted, sighing against him as he began to taste her, seemingly memorizing every inch of her. He was kissing her. Draco was kissing her, and it was excruciatingly satisfying in the way that only something so unexpected could be. 

 

He guided her backwards with uneven steps until her back hit the wall of the greenhouse. The groove between one pane of glass ending and another beginning dug into her back, but she couldn’t muster up enough concern for that either. He was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, matching his eager enthusiasm with her own. His body was hard, his hands roaming, finding new parts of her to touch with every passing moment. She heard something in her throat when his fingers caressed her breast in this madness that had overtaken them. 

 

Somewhere in her mind, she was documenting the different sensations, but none of it made much sense. Anything close to logic had vanished the moment he had spun to face her. She was captivated by him, her body pressing forward to feel more of him against her. She was possessed with a heat that she had never felt before, a heat that seemed fostered by his lips moving down her chin to her neck as she let out another unseemly noise, this time a moan. 

 

One hand slid down to her thigh, clenching her skirt in his fist as if it itched to feel her soft, warm skin beneath with the pads of his fingers. She shivered in response and pulled his mouth back to hers, desperate to taste him again. He rocked against her and groaned into her mouth. She moaned back, sharing in his frustration, until her mind started to creep back in. There was so little between them. Just a few pieces of cloth and the greenhouse was empty. This was insanity. What the hell was she thinking?

 

He seemed to have the same revelation. He bit her lip softly, and then pulled his lips back from hers, his breath hot and heavy against her own. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his hand moved up her skirt to rest at her waist over her clothes. 

 

“No,” she whispered. She had utterly lost any sense of what was happening. She had given back to him as good as she was getting. 

 

“I saw you,” he closed his eyes, and his forehead fell against hers. “I saw you with him Saturday, and I ...” 

 

Just like that, the spell was broken, and Hermione remembered that she was involved with someone else. “Ben,” she whispered again. Panic racked her body. What was she doing? 

 

“Yes,” he confirmed. 

 

“We’re sort of …” she struggled to think straight. Ben, sweet and kind. Ben who respected her mind and cared about her work with Draco, and her dreams for her future. Ben who couldn’t understand the way Draco was broken, the way she was broken. She pushed back on Draco’s chest, needing space to think. He let her slip away from him as she brought her hands up to her face. It was hot and flushed. “I should go,” she told him. 

 

“Hermione,” he said her name, and she closed her eyes. She had been waiting for this moment, the moment when he would be comfortable enough to start using her first name. That would be it, she had thought, the point at which they would truly be friends. It had seemed significant somehow. She had never expected it to be like this. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“I know. I just - I should go.” She started gathering her things to put them away, and he stood beside her watching as she frantically grabbed her tools with her still gloved hands. It was taking everything inside of her to not fall apart in front of him. 

 

She was a horrible person. What in the hell had gotten into her? She had been devastated about Ron just months ago, then she was something with Ben, something that had seemed real ten minutes ago, and, now, what the hell was she now? Was this cheating? Was she a cheater? Were she and Ben together that way? Shouldn’t she know? Shouldn’t that be something she didn’t have to wonder? Shouldn’t she not be buzzing in the wake of kissing Draco, her body screaming at her to stop and just kiss him again? She walked to the table, dumping her things onto it, ripping off her gloves. “I’ll see you later,” she told him.

 

“We should talk,”he insisted. 

 

“I can’t right now,” she said as she pulled her bag over her shoulder, and then she was walking towards the door, rushing to get away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: OMG. DRAMIONE. At least, that is how I feel. Haha. I hope you enjoyed this extremely uneventful chapter. *wink* 
> 
> xoxo  
> Meg
> 
> p.s. find me on tumblr ;)  
> goldensnitch-18


	11. Chapter 11

Monday, September 28th, 1998

 

After lunch, Hermione practically accosted Ginny. The girl had started to stand, and Hermione had grabbed her arm mumbling that they needed to talk. Ginny had followed her, even if it was somewhat reluctant, until they were alone in an abandoned classroom. Ginny raised an eyebrow as Hermione performed silencing and locking charms on the door. 

 

“This has to stop,” Hermione demanded, as soon as she finished. 

 

“What are you talking about?” Ginny asked, alarmed at Hermione’s outburst. 

 

“This. Us. We’re supposed to be in this together, and I’ve barely seen you outside of the classes.” Hermione’s arms folded around her stomach. 

 

“We’re busy. Both of us. You’re tutoring all the time, and I’m practicing. I’m Captain. I have rounds,” Ginny explained.

 

“That’s shit, and you know it. You’re worse than Oliver, which I honestly didn’t think was possible, and definitely isn’t healthy. I know you … with Harry, but ...” 

 

Ginny sighed deeply, the denial seeming to flood out with her exhalation. “I miss him,” she whispered, “and then I feel like a lovesick idiot, but I already waited nearly six years for us to get to the same place, and then he left me, and now I’ve left him. It’s bloody awful, and I want to be here, but it feels so pointless.” 

 

Hermione rubbed at her own arms, as if she might be able to comfort Ginny somehow with the movement. “I know. I miss them, too. Both of them. They would be nagging me incessantly about their homework, but I don’t think I would care. We’re supposed to be best friends. Lately, it just feels like …” She trailed off, not really able to put her thoughts to words.

 

Ginny leaned back and nodded. “Yeah. We are really - Harry and I were struggling. It felt like we were - I don’t even know how to describe it.” 

 

“Yeah,” Hermione said, able to imagine the battle they had been facing. “I don’t think he’s dealing with any of it,” she told Ginny. 

 

“Are any of us?” Ginny whispered back. 

 

“Not really,” Hermione confessed. She pushed aside the images that flashed through her mind, evidence of her own failure to cope. “Could we, maybe, just try to help each other get through this? We need to not be alone.” 

 

Ginny looked out the window, and Hermione wondered if she was picturing the pitch, apparently her place of solitude in all this. “Yeah. I’ll try to be better. I’ll talk to Neville and Luna. Maybe we could set up some time in the library to get together?” 

 

“That would be really great.” 

 

“How are things with, uh, Malfoy?” Ginny’s voice was hesitant. 

 

“Oh, uhh-” He kissed me. She had been thinking over the past few weeks, scrutinizing each interaction with this new knowledge. It gave new meaning to his odd behavior, to the cupcakes, to everything, every moment. How had she missed it? How could she possibly have been so clueless? And, how could it feel so right? It was one thing to extend an olive branch, to call him a friend, to invite him to the village for her birthday, but kissing him? Did he want to … 

 

What did he want? Why would he kiss her like that? He saw her with Ben, and he kissed her anyway. What did that mean? Surely, he wouldn’t kiss her like that if he just wanted to kiss her, and that was all. Would he? Would she want more than that? With him? She had no idea. She hadn’t considered it until his hands were on her, and his lips were on her mouth, and it felt like something in the world had shifted, possibly even fallen into place, which was a terrible thing to think. She was seeing someone else. 

 

Well, they weren’t doing much seeing now that the school year had started, but there was something there, and Hermione had been trying to figure out what that meant. That was what had led her to this. Hermione was alone, far too alone, and she was worried that she was allowing that loneliness to color her interactions with both Ben and Draco. She needed to make an effort, to reconnect with friends, to be less desperate for the comfort of another human being. 

 

“They are fine,” Hermione answered finally after a few stutters. 

 

Ginny eyed her closely. “Okay. That’s good, I guess.” 

 

“Yeah,” Hermione said quickly, not wanting to wait to long to answer again, but now Ginny seemed sure that something was off. “So, you’ll talk to Neville and Luna?” she asked, attempting to change the subject. 

 

“Yeah, this afternoon,” Ginny told her. Hermione ignored her frown. 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 1998

 

It had been four entire days since he had kissed Granger, pressing her up against the cool glass of the greenhouse. He hadn’t spoken to her since. She had sent him a note at breakfast on Tuesday that she was not able to meet with him that day, and then nothing. She avoided his eyes in class, and she seemed to only come or go from her room when other students were sitting in the common area. 

 

He was not dealing with it well. His mind was so on edge in response to this that he was struggling to get anything done. Draco kept thinking about his parents, about what exactly they would say if they knew the way that Hermione Granger, Muggleborn hero, Potter’s best mate, had made him feel. That he, a Malfoy, desired her mind and her body with equal energy, because he missed her. Fuck if he didn’t. He missed their daily meetings. He missed her voice. He missed her lectures. He missed her bouncing leg, and her teeth grazing her lip, and her small, short sparing laughs. She had become such an enormous part of his life, and he felt her absence more keenly than he had ever expected. 

 

On top of this, he was driving himself mad with wondering. Was she with him? Was she in his room? Was she kissing him? Was she letting him touch her? Were they laughing about how stupid he was? About how he could never honestly expect that she would want to be kissed by him? But, she seemed to want him in return. What did that mean, exactly? 

 

And, finally, what if she never talked to him again? Surely, eventually, he would find a way to shove her out of his mind. She was just a girl, and they were just … spending too much time together, but he needed to pass this test, and he needed her help. He never should have done it. He should have let her continue on, let her keep snogging that fucking - 

 

Draco slammed his book shut, brushing a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, and Theo looked up, his face calm and collected as he watched Draco throw his tantrum. 

 

“Are you quite done?” he asked. They were camped out in Draco’s room. They had enlarged his desk, moved it out from the wall slightly, and begun to use it to study when they were both working at the same time. 

 

“Fuck off, Nott,” Draco snapped. “Go in your own fucking room if you don’t like it.” 

 

Theo frowned, unimpressed. “Does this have something to do with Granger?” 

 

Draco glared back at him. 

 

“Yes, I thought it might. What did you do to her? Slip up and call her a Mudblood, and now she won’t help you?” He watched Draco closely, no doubt documenting his every reaction. 

 

“Something like that,” Draco growled. “I’m never going to pass this bloody thing now.” 

 

“Have you considered, I don’t know” - Theo waved his hand as if searching for something elusive - “apologizing.” 

 

“To Granger,” Draco deadpanned. It wasn’t that he had something against apologizing, he’d certainly done it quickly enough when he had offended her at the beginning of all of this, but that Theo would suggest it surprised him. Hermione was a Muggleborn. Nott was, well, the way that Draco was supposed to be. The way they had been raised to be. 

 

“I fail to see your other options.” Theo shrugged. 

 

“I could ask for another tutor.” He had considered this at length. It would allow him to avoid Granger, which would make his life simpler, and it gave her the out she obviously wanted.

 

“Who is going to be replace her?” the other boy scoffed. “I can’t think of a single person who cares enough about being noble to waste their time on you.” 

 

“Thank you,” Draco grumbled. 

 

“Well, you were in league with the Dark Lord,” Theo told him, a smirk moving over his lips. “Most Muggleborns aren’t crazy about you.”

 

“I’m aware of this,” Draco said. 

 

“So fix it. Grovel to Granger and pass your test,” Theo said. 

 

“I’m not sure it’s that easy.” He honestly wasn’t sure how Granger would react to him approaching her. He was pretty sure that if she was ready to hear from him that she would have reached out again, and she hadn’t. 

 

“Are you a Malfoy or not?” Theo snapped. “Make it that easy. I know the last five months haven’t been the best of your life, but fuck Draco. Wake up. You’re going to let Blaise fucking Zabini prance around here like he owns the place, and you can’t figure out a single way to convince Granger to just suck it up for the rest of the year? I don’t think so, mate.” 

 

“I don’t give a fuck what Blaise is doing,” Draco said, but something small, buried deep inside of him disagreed very much. Theo snorted, as if he could feel it as well. 

 

Tuesday, October 5th, 1998

 

Neville was scratching at his nose, and Luna was smiling serenely as they listened to Ginny. She was lecturing them about memory charms, and Hermione thought she was doing a fair job of it. Studying with the three of them was an adjustment, to say the least. She was not used to so many conversations, or laughter, while she tried to focus on her material. The three of them seemed to be much closer than Hermione had even realized, and she found that it made her miss Harry and Ron, and what they had been, even more. It was difficult to sit there, to listen to them, to witness their friendship. It hurt. 

 

And, so, she stood. “Be right back,” she said as she forced a smile. She didn’t know where she was going, but surely she could find a book she needed. She fled, slowly, so as not to cause suspicion, but flee she did, moving through the stacks, until she finally stopped to lean her head against a shelf. 

 

She breathed in the smell of books, paper, leather, ink, and she exhaled a tiny amount of her pain. This was her home. This was her solace. These pages. They gave her comfort. They made sense in a world where nothing made sense any longer. 

 

The hand at her waist jarred her, making her jump in surprise. 

 

“Sorry,” he murmured, and she let her eyes fall closed again. Shit. She had forgotten that she was avoiding people. “I’ve missed you,” his mouth was near her ear, and she sighed softly in acceptance. Her body turned, and suddenly their fronts were very close. He leaned in, and she turned her face as subtly as possible to let him kiss the corner of her mouth. She looked around them to verify that they were indeed the only two souls anywhere near this shelf. I saw you with him.

 

“Sorry,” she repeated his words back to him. “I’ve just been busy.” 

 

“I understand,” Ben said, but his eyes didn’t seem to smile with his mouth. “I sent you messages. I was worried.” 

 

“I know. I meant to respond. The week just got away from me.” She smiled, her stomach twisting. Her mind trying to determine what exactly she was feeling, but she just became utterly confused. 

 

“Well, maybe you could come by Thursday? Or this weekend? I want to see you.” His fingers grazed her jaw.

 

“Why?” she blurted, before she could filter her thoughts. His eyes grew wide. “I mean, what is it about me that you, well, that …” 

 

“Oh.” One corner of his mouth curve up into a grin. “You’re so beautiful, and kind. You’re intelligent. I just enjoy being with you. I think we work well together.” She smiled. It was a good answer, surely. It was. She was just confused, just thrown off by what she had done to him. He had no idea. 

 

“I’ll send you a note later this week, okay?” She smiled again, her mouth starting to hurt with the insincerity of the entire exchange. 

 

“I can’t wait,” he told her, and then he leaned in to kiss her again, one soft press of his lips against hers. It tasted like guilt.

 

Wednesday, October 6th, 1998

 

Everyone had gone home. Ron had left hours ago, his neck flushing as he admitted that he was having dinner at Lavender’s. Harry was sure that there was something going on between the two of them now, even though Ron wasn’t sharing any information about any of it. Harry hadn’t been in a rush to get home. Grimmauld would be empty except Kreacher, and Kreacher was driving him mad. The elf was on him constantly about not eating or sleeping enough. He may be right, but that didn’t mean that Harry needed to hear about it every day. 

 

He placed his elbows on the desk in front of him and rubbed at his face. He ought to head home now, but he wasn’t looking forward to crawling into bed, staring up at the ceiling, flipping this way and that, his mind racing with memories of the past, with thoughts of the future and what it may hold. He seemed unable to clear his head as he watched the minutes tick past. It had been after three in the morning when he had finally managed to fall asleep the night before. He was exhausted, but no matter how tired he was when his head hit the pillow, sleep would not come. 

 

Harry had considered going to St. Mungo’s. He may find some relief, but he was sure that would not end well. Someone would talk, and the next thing he knew, the entire Wizarding World would be talking about his inability to sleep. He considered going to Madam Pomfrey and begging her to give him some Dreamless Sleep. She might actually do it for a night or two, but then she would begin to ask questions, and he wasn’t ready to answer them. Not for Pomfrey, not for anyone. 

 

He didn’t really have any work to do, but they were studying old case files in training. He had started raiding the extras, keeping himself busy in the only somewhat productive way he could think of. In some ways, analyzing old case studies seemed almost cathartic. It was almost like a high, a release of some sort, when he came across a trained Auror who had made a mistake, sometimes huge mistakes that suspended or ended careers. It wasn’t that he found vindication in their mistakes, but instead a fellowship. These were fully grown adults, some twice his age or more, trained by the ministry to take down evil, and they fumbled. Sometimes, they got it wrong, just like him. How many times did he get it wrong? How many people had he - 

 

“Harry?” The voice that cut into his thoughts was rough with exhaustion and surprise. He looked up from his hands to see the Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. 

 

“Hey,” he could hear his own exhaustion in return. 

 

“You're not supposed to sound like that until they give you the big office,” Kingsley joked. 

 

“I have no desire for the big office,” Harry said, trying to appear a little less how he felt. 

 

“Sadly, they will force it upon you one day anyway,” Kingsley replied. He grabbed a chair from the next desk over and dropped into it. “How is your training going?” 

 

“Good. Everyone is really great,” Harry assured him. 

 

“They aren’t giving you any special treatment are they?” he asked with a loud laugh. 

 

“They try not to, which I appreciate,” Harry told him. He honestly couldn’t be more grateful for this fact. The Auror Department as a whole had tried very hard to make him feel welcome without making him feel like Harry Potter. 

 

“So, what are you doing here so late?” Kingsley leaned forward to glance at the file. “Reading old case files,” he said, answering his own question. “I used to love that part. Writing them though …” He laughed again, and Harry cracked a smile. They had already been working on practice reports. He could already tell he was going to hate the entire process. 

 

“You survived it,” Harry said. 

 

“I just tried to stay in the field as much as possible. Too busy to write anything. Worked out for me in the end, I suppose.” Kingsley shrugged, and they fell into silence for a few moments. Harry tried to think of something to say, but just as he was about to blurt out something surely ridiculous, Kingsley spoke again. “So, I talked to Arthur the other day.” 

 

“Oh?” Harry asked, his stomach suddenly very empty. 

 

“I had dinner at The Burrow. He seems to be a bit worried about you.” Kingsley never moved his eyes from the moving photograph of a dirty man holding up Azkaban prisoner number. “And, then I find you here, alone. Should I be worried about you? As a friend.” He added this last part as an afterthought, as if it somehow wasn’t the Minister of Magic asking if Harry was off his rocker. 

 

“I’m fine,” Harry told him. “Really.” He knew he was lying, and he was sure that Kingsley knew as well, but the other man nodded and met his eyes. 

 

“You let me know if that changes. I’m going to leave this in the big office.” He lifted the envelope he had been holding which was sealed with the emblem of his office. He stood, leaving Harry behind to stare down at the image, lost in his thoughts about his own mental health at the moment. On his way back out the door, Kingsley stopped in front of his desk again. 

 

“You know, you don’t owe us anything,” he said softly, and then he was moving again, his feet carrying him away from Harry.


	12. Chapter 12

 

**Chapter Twelve**

 

**Friday, October 9th, 1998**

 

Hermione sat towards the front of the class and to the right of him. Weasley’s sister was beside her staring off into space while Slughorn droned on about something or another. Potions came easily to Draco. It didn’t require the attention that Charms or Transfiguration would, so he didn’t really care that he had spent the last hour ignoring the man as he considered exactly how to corner Hermione after this lesson.

 

He was done with waiting. They had missed out on two full weeks of tutoring now, and he was starting to worry that she would never come back. He had thought, perhaps, she needed some space, or that she might change her mind, or that she would just come back out of a sense of responsibility because she was a bloody Gryffindor, but she had been consistent in her attempts to evade him. So, he was left with Theo’s advice. Be a Malfoy. Make her see reason. He wasn’t sure precisely how he was going to accomplish this, but it was going to happen in - he looked at the clock - two minutes.

 

He looked back to Slughorn, blocking out the man’s incessant chatter while he tried to quickly, finally determine what to say to her to get her to talk to him. Was there anything he could say to get her to talk to him? He wasn’t honestly sure. It was possible she was waiting for him to approach her. He found that unlikely, but he could hope. Draco shoved his book into his bag and pulled it over his shoulder, waiting for class to end.

 

“Well,” Slughorn sighed dramatically, “it is sadly time for us to part. I will see you next week.” Draco moved quickly, walking for the door and then down the hall just enough that he wasn’t visible outside. Students followed him out, mostly walking in pairs or small groups talking amongst themselves. She came out with the Weasley girl. The redhead was chattering about something to her, but Hermione was watching him. Their eyes met, and she bit her bottom lip. She knew he was waiting for her.

 

“Granger,” he said once they had almost reached him. She seemed to sigh in acceptance and turned towards Weaslette.

 

“Tutoring. I’ll see you later, okay?”

 

The other girl eyed him as if she could somehow find something in him in that very moment that might help her understand him. It was unnerving at the least. “Okay. See you at dinner.” She moved her gaze from him and began to walk again, leaving them behind. Hermione shifted her bag nervously on her shoulder as the rest of the class filtered past, several of them staring at the pair standing awkwardly in the hall.

 

“Come on,” he told her, walking back the other direction. She followed as they passed the potions classroom again and down past another few doorways. He turned left down a hallway and then left again stopping in front of a tapestry. He pulled it aside and waited for her to catch up. She glanced inside at the seating area hidden within. After a moment of hesitation, she walked inside. He let the tapestry fall back in place as he entered.

 

“So,” she asked, lifting a hand in question.

 

“So, it’s been two weeks since we met for tutoring.” He stood near the opening, leaving plenty of space between them.

 

“I know,” she bit her lip again and pulled a lock of hair behind her ear.

 

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.

 

She gaped. “I thought that was fairly obvious. You kissed me. ”

 

“So?” Draco shrugged, as if this was no big deal as if she hadn’t been the only girl he had kissed in the last year.

 

“So?!” she demanded.

 

“Yeah, so? I kissed you. I didn't ask you to marry me. There is no reason to hide over it.” The words slid out coolly, almost as if he was himself again.

 

“I’m not hiding!” she snapped.

 

“Really? You’re not hiding, Granger?” He crossed his arms, his eyes meeting hers, forcing her to face reality.

 

“So, now I’m Granger again,” she said, changing the subject.

 

“Two weeks of not speaking to me made it clear you would like to stay Granger.” He smirked at her, and it felt damn good.

 

Her face reddened in response. “Dammit, Draco! Don’t be an ass.”

 

“I’m not being an ass. I’m telling the truth. I kissed you, and you’re with him. End of story.” She opened her mouth to respond but quickly shut it, staring back at him. “What?” he asked.

 

“I’m … I can’t talk about this yet,” she told him quietly.

 

“Yet?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

 

“Yet,” she confirmed.

 

“What does that mean?” he asked. She was silent. “Granger” - he took a step closer, but she mirrored him, also moving backward - “Are you ending things?”

 

“I - just - why are you so difficult?” she spluttered.

 

“I’m just asking you a question,” he told her, his mind was trying to race two steps ahead, to wondering why she would be ending things.  

 

“That I don’t want to answer yet,” she told him.  

 

“ _I’m_ not going to tell him you're breaking it off. Believe me.” He silently hoped that he was right. That she wasn’t going to be hiding around the school with that idiot because as much as he lied to himself and said that he could be okay with that, he wasn’t. Not at all.

 

“I’ve decided that I need to focus on me for a while,” she said, finally confirming the truth.  

 

“What does that mean?” _For us._

 

“It means, I’m clearly messed up and need to work on my own mess for a minute,” she was really worked up now. Her hair was flying, her cheeks still red, her mouth tight.

 

“So kissing me means you're messed up?” he asked.

 

“No, of course not, but being this confused about what I want and what is right does. These haven’t been the finest months of my life.” He could give her that. Things since the war had been nearly surreal.

 

“Fine. I won’t kiss you.” He wanted to kiss her again. He could close the distance between them in three steps, but then he would be back where he had started before this conversation had begun.

 

“Fine,” she said as if this was exactly what she wanted.  

 

“We’re starting tutoring again on Monday,” he told her.  

 

“Fine,” she said again.

 

“When are you going to tell him?” he asked, needing to know when exactly she was planning on being free of him.

 

“Seriously?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

 

“Okay, I don’t need to know.” Draco shrugged, but then added, “Will you tell me after?”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” she insisted.

 

“You kissed me back.” He smirked again, remembering exactly how good it had felt to have her returning his attention in earnest.  

 

“This _does not_ come up again,” she said, pointing one finger at his chest.

 

“Whatever you say, Granger,” he smiled and turned to leave.  

 

**Sunday, October 11th, 1998**

 

Hermione forced a smile as Ben pulled her into his quarters. The door shut firmly behind her, and his mouth found hers, kissing her desperately. She placed her hands on his chest and applied a gentle pressure, pushing him back.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling his lips from hers, his eyes searching for the answer on her face.

 

“We should sit down,” she suggested, glancing over at his sofa.

 

“This doesn’t sound good.” He took three steps back from her and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“It’s, well, no,” she said, simply. “Do you want to sit down?”

 

“I can stand,” he told her shortly. They stood there, her looking at the ground, him staring back at her, for several long minutes. “So?” he asked.

 

“I think I need to just be alone for a little while,” she told him, knowing that he had already figured out where this was going.  

 

“Why?” he asked.

 

“I - I kind of jumped into this from someone else, and I feel like I’m not even sure what I want anymore,” she told him.  

 

“I thought you wanted me,” he said, and she reconsidered for a single moment. She had wanted him until Draco had kissed her, and she had been suddenly confused by what it meant that she had liked it so very much, too much, and that was why she was ending things. She needed to figure out where her head was at.  

 

“I did, maybe I do, I don’t know, but I need to just focus on me and what my next step is before I worry about who I’m going to take it with,” she said.

 

“You don’t think I’ll support you? Hermione” - he moved in, placing his hand on her elbow - “I know that you are going to be incredible. I can’t wait to watch you light up the Ministry. I want to be there by your side helping you do it.”

 

She shook her head, smiling weakly. “I don’t even know if I want to work at the Ministry right now. Everything is so … wrong.”

 

“Why haven’t you said anything about this before?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

 

“Why haven’t you asked? Ever?” she asked, suddenly realizing that the thing that drew her to him, also separated them. “Everyone asks. Everyone wants to know. They all whisper, or write me letters, or debate my effectiveness during the war, or want to interview me. Everyone wants an in with Harry, or a foot up, but you never even mention it, you never even act like it happened to me. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

 

“I thought - well - I thought that you were moving forward, planning to use your name for something that mattered,” he said, his expression full of confusion.  

 

“What?”

 

“You could do so much with who you are. It would be a waste not to use it,” he explained.  

 

“Is that how you see me?” she asked, her image of him shattering before her eyes.

 

“What? No, of course not, I like _you,_ I just -” he stuttered over his words, struggling to get out whatever he was attempting to say.

 

“You just like what I could do for you also?” Her voice was hollow and low.

 

“No, I mean, I can’t say it wasn’t appealing in the beginning, but now, that doesn’t matter. But, that doesn’t change -” He was talking quickly, too quickly.

 

“If I wasn’t me, if I hadn’t helped Harry, would you have been interested in me at all?” She sounded unnatural even to herself.

 

“Of course, I would have!” he demanded.

 

“Really? Because that isn’t what you just said,” she told him, suddenly finding her voice again.  

 

“You’re twisting my words,” he insisted.

 

“No, I’m not. You said that in the beginning, my name was what drew you to me. I thought that you actually liked me.”

 

“I did. I do. I don’t want to take a break,” he said.

 

“Don’t worry, it’s not a break,” Hermione snapped. Her hand reached for the door, her blood pumping in her ears. Shame and anger flooded her.

 

“Hermione!” Ben reached for her, his hand gripping her arm gently.

 

“Don’t touch me,” she spat as she pulled the door open. The slam of it shutting behind her seemed so loud she was sure that everyone in the castle would have heard it. She tried not to run. She tried to take quick, steady steps towards the nearest bathroom. She tried not to cry, but tears were streaming down her face long before she found solace behind the stall door.

 

She was an idiot. Ron wanted Lavender. Ben wanted her name. Draco wanted … well, she had no idea, but he was just as lost and broken as she was, so there was no way he was thinking straight. She leaned her head against the wall as she cried. This had been the last thing she had expected to come out of this. Hermione had known that it might be hard to end this, that it might be difficult to put some space between them, but ultimately she thought they maybe still end up together. Ben had been sweet and charming while sharing her interests and those old ambitions that she was no longer quite sold on, but now …

 

She could be over reacting. She could be making too much of his words, but he had been so indifferent towards the war and her past. She had allowed herself to imagine that this was because he was different, not because he was more concerned with how those incidents could affect his future.

 

She wiped at her sodden face pointlessly. She knew that she had been right to tell him that it was over, that she needed to focus on herself. Now, more than ever, she needed to figure out what she wanted and what her life would look like after Hogwarts, and she needed to do this without getting swept up in smooth words and tender embraces.

 

**Tuesday, October 13th, 1998**

 

“So, I wanted to ask you about something,” Lavender said. Her head rested on his chest as her foot slid gently up and down his jeans under the warm blanket he had draped over them both.

 

“Okay,” Ron leaned down to touch his lips to her hair. He breathed in the sweet scent of her shampoo as he kissed her softly on the top of her head.

 

“Parvati is working for Witch Weekly.” Her hand was on his abdomen, drawing circles across his shirt.

 

“Yeah, you said. How’s it going?” he asked, more out of a desire to be polite than anything else. Lavender had reluctantly told him that Parvati wasn’t crazy about them getting back together, so Ron wasn’t really that crazy about Parvati at the moment. He could understand her hesitation, surely, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

 

“Really well, actually. She loves it.” Lavender turned her head to look up at him, smiling shyly. Her neck was healing quite well now, but he had nearly stopped seeing it. Well, that was a lie, but he didn’t really _see_ the scars as much as he felt the pain of her having them at all in his gut.

 

“So, what does that have to do with asking me something?” he prompted.

 

“She mentioned that the magazine is looking for some freelance writers. People who write articles about anything they want and submit it. I thought, well, I’m just sitting here all day, and I thought I might try it out.” Her cheeks blushed softly.

 

“Writing? Is that something you’re interested in?” he asked, surprised at this twist. He’d never really pegged Lavender as a writer. She was so personable, he had always assumed she would want to do something with people.

 

“Well, Parvati mostly writes about gossip and advice. It’s a bit of, well” - Lavender paused as if to shift directions - “she’s good at it. I don’t think I would want to write anything like that, but I could maybe write about something else. Something that matters.”

 

“Like what?” Ron asked. He wasn’t really aware of Witch Weekly being big on things that mattered. He was fairly sure they mostly covered the kind of frivolous nonsense Parvati seemed to be focusing on.

 

“I don’t know. I guess it’s silly,” she turned her head back down, laying in on his chest again.

 

“Lav,” Ron said, his voice apologetic as he lifted her chin gently with his fingers. “I don’t think it’s silly. If you have something to say, then try and write it. I’m just not sure about the audience.”

 

“I mean, I just have this in with Parvati there,” Lavender shrugged.

 

“Have you written anything yet?” He asked sliding his fingers gently down her neck.

 

“A bit. I’m not really ready to share yet.”

 

“Would you let me read it when you're done?” he asked.

 

“Uh,” she flushed again, pushing herself up to sit cross-legged beside him. “I guess I could.”

 

“You don’t have to,” he assured her.

 

“No, I will.” Lavender pulled at her hair nervously. “It’s just something I’ve never done before. What if I’m shit?”

 

“You won’t be shit.” Ron leaned in placing a hand on her waist. “I’m glad you’re going to do this,” he told her before he kissed her softly.

 

**Tuesday, October 13th, 1998**

 

By Friday, they had fallen back into their old rhythm, well nearly. On Monday, things had been tense. Something had seemed to be off about her beyond just the jitters of getting back into their tutoring routine, and he had been dying to ask her if it was something to do with Ben, but he refrained, sure that it would just upset her if it was. Slowly, over the course of the week, she seemed to lighten as if she was letting go of something and by the end of the week, there was definitely something different about the way they interacted.

 

She let her eyes linger too long on his hand when he reached across the desk to point something out and ask a question. She smiled just a little more than she had before. Her knee bumped his when she leaned in to reach across the desk for a book, and something flashed across her face. She was thinking about it. He was certain. He had told her he wouldn’t bring it up, but he was sure that she was thinking about him kissing her. He was sure as hell thinking about it. He had no idea what it meant that he wanted to kiss Granger, or that he was just a bit smug about her breaking it off with that idiot, or that he was wondering exactly how long she needed before it would be acceptable to press her up against a wall again.

 

He was trying not to think too much about the logistics of what that desire meant, and instead was focusing on the desire itself. It was much more simple to admit that he wanted to kiss her, that he enjoyed the way her thigh felt through her skirt. These were physical urges, urges that she had shared and reciprocated. Things beyond this were messy and difficult and did not need to be thought about right now. Granger was a girl, nearly a woman, and she was fit enough if you ignored the atrocities of her hair. And he was a boy, nearly a man, and he hadn’t found himself this close to a girl for this long in ages. He hadn’t found himself of sound mind enough to care about a girl in ages.

 

So, he was trying to be patient, to let her do whatever it was that she was trying to do, and he was trying to focus on his lessons. He was trying to think about letting his hand brush across her breast or his lips just below her ear, but it was nearly impossible when she bit her lip and looked expectantly at him like that. “You’re not paying any bloody attention to me,” she said.

 

“Of course, I am,” he told her, indignant.

 

“You were staring at my ear,” she huffed.

 

“No, I don’t think I would do that because you were clearly talking about the moving pictures you’re always going on about.” He was very good at multitasking. He could handle listening to her while he thought about other things.

 

“Always going on about? This is for _your_ stupid exam we’re preparing for,” she snapped.

 

“Did you just call an exam stupid?” he laughed.

 

“No - I meant-” She looked horrified by the idea that he may think she thought any exam was stupid.

 

“You think I’m stupid then?” he asked, teasing her.

 

She groaned. “Do you think you could go back to being afraid of being a smart ass?”

 

“No, probably not.”

 

She sighed heavily and brushed a hand across her brow as if in search of a rogue piece that was bothering her. “I already know about movies. If you aren’t listening there isn’t any point.”

 

“I was listening. You were talking about the transition from black and white footage to color.”

 

“Perhaps if you looked at the book and not my ear you would gain the added benefit of seeing the differences,” she told him, pointing at the images in the text.

 

“I studied the chapter last night. I saw the pictures,” he told her.

 

“Then I’m not sure why you need me,” she snapped.

 

“You know I need you, Granger.” He smirked, and she blushed predictably, but it was still enjoyable to watch the flush creep up her cheeks as she moved her eyes back to the book.

 

“Just try to pay attention,” she admonished.  

 

“Will do,” he said softly, leaning in closer to look at her book even though his was open before him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So … about Ben … I don’t like him very much, so you can stop saying how wonderful he is now. HAHA. Kidding … kidding … but really. I’m glad this is officially over. He’s really not a terrible guy, he’s just so out of touch with the reality that Hermione is living in. 
> 
> Also, in a review of the last chapter Somnus Verus (ffn reviewer) said that they imagine Ben with a creeper stache and this literally made my week. It was the best ever. Bahahaha.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> xoxo  
> Meg


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Wednesday, October 21st, 1998

Lavenders leg bounced as she sat in her desk chair, watching Ron with eager anticipation. He could feel her eyes on him, not moving for even a single moment as he read her article. When he was done, he set it down on the bed beside him and looked up at her. She bit her lip. “So?” she asked. 

“It’s really good,” he told her, and it was. It was nothing at all like he had been expecting. He wasn’t honestly sure what he had thought she was planning to write about, but what she had given him read significantly less like an an article and more like the beginnings of an argument for a change in werewolf legislation. “I think you should let me send it to Hermione.” 

Lavender’s mouth fell open as she turned red, and he knew he had made a mistake. “What?” she asked. 

“I just mean, I think this is really, very good, but it would be a waste in Witch Weekly. She might have a better idea of who you could send it to or talk to. She keeps up on that kind of thing.” 

“I do not need Hermione’s help,” she snapped, moving towards the bed. He watched uneasily as she grabbed the pages from beside him and turned to take them back to her desk. 

He tried not to sigh, but he knew he had fucked this up. Having Hermione read it had been his first thought, and it had just stumbled out of his mouth. Hermione was the only person he knew that might be able to help Lavender find the right outlet for what she had to say and also the only person her knew that might be passionately on her side, but he should have known better than to suggest so flippantly that she should send it to the girl who had essentially broken them up the first time they had dated. 

Ron pushed up from the bed and walked up behind her. She was rifling with the contents of her desk with no apparent purpose outside of not having to look at him. “Lav,” he said softly, his hand coming to rest at her waist, “I didn’t mean anything by it.” She stiffened beneath his touch. 

“Of course, you didn’t,” she said curtly. “This is important to me, and your first thought is to share it with her.” 

“Not like that,” he insisted, but he should have know she would take it this way. He should have known that he would be putting his foot in his mouth. Her best friend was already telling her that it was a mistake to give him this second chance, and he was basically handing Parvati her argument on a silver platter by bringing up Hermione straight away. 

“Well, that is how it feels,” she told him, slamming down an ink bottle. Ron cringed. 

“I genuinely just think she can be helpful to you,” he tried to explain. 

“I don’t need her help,” Lavender told him. 

“She’s my friend,” he said carefully, trying not to put any inflections that could be misunderstood into the words. Hermione was his friend. They were both done. He knew it, and she knew it, but Lavender couldn’t possibly understand why or how because he hardly understood it himself.

“I know that she is your friend. I accept that. It doesn’t mean that I have to want her involved in this, in my life.” She had gripped the edge of the desk and stopped moving things around frantically without purpose. Her voice was softening as well, leading him to believe that he might still save this conversation. 

Ron grabbed her hand from behind before gently guiding her to turn and face him. She tried to look away, but he waited for her to meet his eyes. “Do you really want to publish this in Witch Weekly?” he asked, switching his method of trying to redeem himself. 

“No,” she admitted. 

“Do you have any other ideas for where to send it?” 

“No,” she said again, sullen. 

“Then, maybe, we could try this and see if she can help because she is my friend and nothing more,” he suggested. Lavender stared back at him for a long moment and then looked away. 

“Have you told her?” she asked. 

“We, well, really, all three of us, just haven’t been talking much.” She looked disappointed by this, so he continued quickly. “She knows I spend nearly all of my time with you. I’m sure she’s figured it out. I’ll tell her when I see her on Halloween, okay?” 

“I’m trying really hard not to be crazy and jealous,” she said in response. He squeezed her hand. 

“I know. I appreciate it.” 

“You can’t just spring her on me when I ask you to do something like this. You just said ‘It’s good. I’m going to give it to this other girl I was in love with.’”

Ron winced and nodded. “I will try to not be an idiot in the future.” 

“You can send it to her, if you really think she might have an idea,” she agreed. 

“I do.” He leaned in, kissing her softly. 

Sunday, October 25th, 1998

Draco was sitting in the common area when she opened her door. He had come out after everyone had gone to bed. He needed a break from his bed staring at him, mocking him for not sleeping, so he had moved back out to the sofa where he had sat so many late nights before the rest of the school had shown up, ruining most everything. 

He looked up at the noise, and she seemed to startle at his presence. “You okay,” he asked. 

Hermione closed her eyes, seeming to collect herself and nodded. “Yeah, of course,” she told him, but her eyes were red, and her hand was shaking. 

He pushed up on the arm of the sofa, and moved over to her. “Are you sure?” he asked. 

She ran her trembling hand up behind her neck and took an unsteady breath. “I just … I need ... “ she trailed off, staring towards the fire. 

He reached out slowly, tentatively, and pushed her hair behind her ear. She seemed to crumple in response, her body deflating. “Do you want to … uh ... we could try to ... ” He couldn’t seem to get the words out, but she looked up at him, her eyes wet, and bit her lip. She understood. 

“Out here?” Where anyone can see. He too understood. They were an anomaly. Something odd and entirely unexpected had happened, was happening, between them which none of these people would understand. 

“Up to you,” he said, not caring if anyone saw them. Well, this wasn’t necessarily true. He might care, if it actually happened. He wasn’t sure.

“Uh,” she glanced back in her room, “do you want to come in here?” she asked. 

“Sure,” he told her. Maybe it was easier that way. 

“Okay.” She stepped back, making room for him to walk inside, and then shut the door behind him. His steps were careful. This was her space, and she had invited him into it even though she was clearly shaken. Hermione passed him, moving to her bed. The blankets were tangled. She crawled up beside them, still looking like a shadow of herself. Draco followed, hesitant as he sat on the end of the mattress. She hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, but his eyes adjusted quickly. 

“So,” he said, suddenly sure that this had been a terrible idea. What did he have to offer her? 

Hermione looked at him carefully, something haunting in her eyes as her teeth worked her bottom lip again. He forced himself to meet her gaze, watch her closely as her mouth opened, as she struggled for words. He was silent, waiting, his heart beating rapidly. She pulled her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms. 

“Do you have nightmares?” she asked, and he was suddenly able to exhale. 

“Yes,” he whispered. Every night. 

“Do you think it will stop?” Her voice cracked. 

“Yes,” he lied. He had no confidence at all that his would never stop, but he sincerely hoped hers would. He wanted nothing more in that moment then to lean in, press her down to the bed, and kiss her until she forget entirely whatever, whoever, had woken her. Maybe that wrong. Maybe that was just another sign of how screwed up he was. 

“It shouldn’t feel like this,” she said, her eyes fluttering closed. 

“What shouldn’t?” he asked. 

She looked at him, and he was struck again by the pain in her eyes. She was bare before him. Every emotion brought to the surface and naked for him to see. “All of it. Everything. I just thought it would be easier. I thought it would be different.” 

“I never thought about it ending up like this,” he admitted. He regretted the admission the moment it left his lips. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

He considered lying, telling her something about never thinking they could ever be able to have a conversation like this, but in the end, he settled on truth. “Potter winning. I never thought it was possible. The Dark Lord … I didn’t think anyone ...” He faltered, looking away from her. 

“Draco,” she whispered his name, and he felt dirty, undeserving. 

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” she looked genuinely confused that he would question this. 

“After all of it, everything I’ve done, you should have said no. You never should have started to help me.” He could still remember his disbelief when McGonagall had told him that Hermione Granger was going to be the one to tutor him. It had seemed so utterly crazy that anyone would be willing to help him, but least of all her. 

“I guess I thought maybe I could change you.” She shrugged, as if this meant nothing, but he could see the vulnerability hidden behind the movement. 

He shook his head. “I guess you have.” 

“I don’t know about that,” she said, watching him carefully. “I think I’m just here. You had already started to change, things are just settling now. You’re figuring out who you want to be.” 

He stared at her, and she looked back, working her lip like crazy every time she stopped talking. It drew his eyes to her mouth and his mind to the greenhouse. He didn’t know who he wanted to be. He had no bloody idea. His life was a mess, his family shattered, his way of living destroyed. Everything he had ever believed in went against everything she was and stood for, but he knew that he wanted to kiss her. He knew that he liked the way she made him feel. He knew that when he was with her, all of that seemed to matter just a little less. He moved, pushing against the soft top of the mattress as he climbed towards her. 

“I told you I should figure out my mess,” she whispered, no doubt seeing the desire in his eyes. 

“I know,” he said, not caring. He was on his knees before her. His hand reached out, and his thumb grazed her lips. Even this simple gesture towards her felt more intimate that nearly anything he had ever experienced. “I would never have considered this before,” he told her. 

“I know,” Hermione repeated. “Me either.” 

“What is it that you are trying to figure out?” he asked. 

“Why I was with him. Why I …” She just looked at him. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, just missing his thumb. 

“What do you want right now?” Draco asked her. 

“Right now?” She closed her eyes, thinking or deciding what to say, and then opened them again. “I want to ask you to stay with me tonight. It might help me actually get back to sleep.” Draco leaned in to replace his thumb with his lips, barely grazing them across hers. She sighed against him, and he fought every urge to grip her tightly against him. 

“But?” he asked, instead. 

“But, I feel like I’m not supposed to want that.” Her voice was full of something that caused it to tremble. 

“How about we try not giving a fuck what other people think? At least when we’re alone.” He kissed her again, his lips more insistent as her hands found his neck. She pulled him closer and let her body fall back until her head hit the pillow. They settled against each other, Draco slightly to the side to avoid her directly beneath him. He was very aware of what she was not offering, and he didn’t think he could bare the sensations of her body completely against his. He moved his lips across her jaw and up to her ear. “Hermione,” he whispered. She leaned closer, her head resting in the crook of his neck as her arms moved around his body. He breathed her in, finding comfort in her proximity, in her contact. It was embarrassing how he much he relished the sensation of her fingers on his back or her chin on his shoulder. “Ask me to stay,” he told her. 

“Stay with me?” she asked, and his stomach flipped as his eyes fell closed. He had to work hard to control his body which was already responding eagerly to her beside him. 

“Okay,” he responded. She turned beneath him, offering her back to his front. He pulled at the blankets, covering them both before his arm settled at her waist. His heart thudded heavily against his chest as he moved her hair away from her shoulder to kiss her softly one last time. 

Tuesday October 27th, 1998

“Hey,” Neville said softly, his hand resting on her shoulder just long enough to squeeze before he sat down beside her. She was hiding in the stands wrapped in her coat. 

“Hey,” Ginny said back, not bothering to look at him. Her feet were on the row in front of her, knees bent and arms crossed. She had come out here to be alone. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” she told him, staring down at her shoes. One of them had come untied. 

“You looked really upset when you left breakfast,” he continued, undeterred by her obvious signs that she didn’t want to talk. 

“I’ll be okay,” she told him, shrugging. 

“Come on, Gin,” he bumped his shoulder into hers. “What is it?” 

She sighed, finally looking over at him. He was giving her that grin that had somehow become endearing over the years. She couldn’t help but feel safe. This was Neville, one of her closest friends, the first boy who had ever noticed her as more than a little girl. How different would her life be if they had carried on after that ball? How much easier would it be if she wasn’t in love with Harry Potter?

“My mother wrote me,” she told him, patting her pocket where the letter rested. 

“Did you read it?” he asked. His hesitation was evident in his voice. 

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I want to.” 

“You should,” he told her, bumping his shoulder against her again. “You know you should.” 

“She was being ridiculous,” Ginny insisted. 

“And, it has been months. You aren’t living with Harry right now,” he reminded her, and she nearly laughed. She was very aware that she wasn’t living with Harry right now. She was very aware that every night when she laid down something was missing, something that made her ache in a way that made her wonder if she could really make it through this year. 

“I’m going to stay with him over break. What is she going to do then? Get mad at me all over again? And, what if it isn’t even that she wants to put it behind us? What if she just wants to tell me I’m behaving like a child or something?” Ginny asked him. 

“Seems a bit dim to wait this long to yell at you. I’ll read it first if you want,” he offered. 

She looked at him again, considering, and reached for her pocket. The letter was folded inside. She pulled it out and handed it to him before moving her eyes back to the pitch. She could hear him open it, hear the paper crinkle as he unfolded it, hear his breath as he read it. 

“She’s just sending her love and letting you know that she hopes you will come home for Christmas,” he said, refolding the letter. 

“Okay,” she said, not sure what to think. 

“You should write her back,” Neville urged, and she shrugged. 

“Maybe,” she answered, and they fell into silence. Neville stared out at the pitch with her, and she was glad that he was there, that he had read the letter for her. 

“How is he?” Neville asked a few minutes later, attempting to conceal his concern. 

“Not good,” Ginny said, moving to stand. She didn’t want to talk about Harry. It hurt too much to think about it. Every time she saw him, he looked worse, and she was going to see him this weekend. She was equally looking forward to and dreading the visit. They would talk and be together and avoid the things he wouldn’t talk about which stood between them, keeping them from making any real progress. She hated it, and she loved it because she had chosen him. She had fallen for him so utterly completely, and she didn’t care that it had turned her into this mess. She just wanted to be able to help him, to fix him. He deserved to be happy, and whole, and sleeping. 

“Gin,” Neville called, standing to follow her, but she just ignored him and started down the stairs two at a time.


	14. Chapter 14

******Chapter Fourteen**

 

**Saturday, October 31st**

Hermione had walked down to the village with Ginny and headed into the Three Broomsticks. Harry and Ron were waiting for them, sitting at a table with four butterbeers. They had drank them while they made small talk about Hogwarts and Auror training and avoided anything that might make the moments more awkward than they already were. Once they had finished their first round, Harry and Ginny had excused themselves to go do some shopping, and Hermione sat alone at the table while Ron went to buy them each another drink. 

As he returned to his seat, Ron pushed her mug across the table towards her, and Hermione took it in her hands, her stomach suddenly twisting. They hadn’t been alone together since they had been in her room at Grimmauld officially ending whatever they had never been. 

“So, Lavender?” she asked finally, once the silence had stretched too thin between them. 

“Yeah,” Ron began, reaching up to scratch at the back of his head, “We’re seeing each other now.” She could tell he was nervous, but he didn’t stumble over the words, which seemed to make them mean more. 

“I assumed,” Hermione told him. “Harry mentioned you were still going to see her in one of his letters. It’s been months.” She was fairly sure Harry had been trying to warn her so that this news did not come out of nowhere, which she appreciated. 

“It isn’t like it was before,” he assured her, and she shrugged. 

“Okay. You don’t have to explain it to me,” she told him. It wasn’t the greatest news she’d ever received. Five months ago, she hadn’t wanted anything but Ron, but something hadn’t been right between them. That was clear. If they had been right, he wouldn’t have disappeared off to the hospital to wait outside Lavender’s hospital room. She wouldn’t have been left alone for months. 

“So, how are you really doing?” he asked. 

“I’m okay. Lessons are fine. Working with Malfoy is still going well.” His surname already tasted odd on her tongue, but she was entirely sure she didn’t want to get into the way her relationship with Draco had changed. He would be the very last person to understand. 

“Good. That’s really good. Are you … seeing anyone?” he grinned sheepishly, and she resisted the urge to snap at him. She knew he was probably trying to be nice, but it just felt wrong to be talking about this with him. 

“I was. It wasn’t right,” she told him. He looked surprised by this, and Hermione had no desire to hear what he would say next and decided to change the subject. “So, this article …” 

“You read it?” he asked, leaning forward. 

“Yes, I did, and I think it’s actually really great.” Hermione turned in her seat to reach into her bag. She pulled out a folder for him and slid it across the table. “I’ve included the names of several publishers in the order that I would contact them.” 

“Publishers?” Ron asked, his eyes growing wide. 

“For a book,” Hermione said.

“A book? She’s only just written this,” he told her, jabbing his finger at the folder. 

“I know, but this is - Ron, what she survived, and her outlook on it? That isn’t normal. She has the ability to make people look at werewolves differently, to make them understand what we have forced them to become. I really think she should write this as a book. She should look into publishing the article, I’ve included a list for that as well, but then she should start speaking to someone about a book.” It had been difficult at first to assimilate the girl Hermione remembered, her grating roommate who had stolen Ron from her, with the person who had written this. Then she had remembered what had happened to her, what she must have endured at Hogwarts in the last year, and Hermione was able to believe that perhaps Lavender really was different, just like the rest of them. 

“Wow.” Ron opened the folder, fingering through the parchment inside.  

“I’ve highlighted several areas that I think might be worth converting to her thesis and written up some notes for her.” Hermione reached across to point these out to him. 

“I … thank you,” he said, clearly shocked by her reaction. 

“Well this is why you sent it to me isn’t it?” she asked, unsure if she was doing too much. 

“Yes, but, well … I was a bit nervous,” he said. 

“That I might be jealous, or angry?” she asked, lowering her voice. The rest of the students in the pub were laughing and talking loudly. No one was paying them any particular attention, but still. She was all too familiar with how interesting their lives had become to the rest of the wizarding populace. 

“A bit,” he admitted as his neck flushed. 

“I’m not going to lie and say that I’m thrilled, but I’m glad that you're happy, and I’m really impressed by what she’s done here,” she said. 

“Are we okay?” he asked, lowering his own voice in the same way that she had. He glanced around them at the groups of students ignoring them. 

“No,” she told him, and the admission, though true, still hurt. “I think we can be, but it’s going to take some time.”  

“Okay.” He pulled the folder into his lap, and she could tell he wanted to say something else. 

“What?” she urged. 

“I’m worried about Harry,” he admitted, and she sighed. 

“Yeah. Me too.” Harry’s letters were extremely sparse but so were her own. Talking to Ginny wasn’t reassuring at all that things were getting better. “Is he sleeping?” 

“I don’t think so. He’s already working like he’s got thirty cases to deal with. He’s the last one to leave at night and the first to show up in the morning. I know my parents have been trying to get him to go over there, but I don’t think he feels right because my mum and Ginny are fighting.” Ron shook his head. “I’m trying, but he doesn’t want to talk about it, any of it.” 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come back,” Hermione said, her stomach twisting again as she thought about Harry. She hated that he was hurting and no one seemed to be able to help. 

“That’s crazy,” Ron told her. “You had to. That’s what you wanted. I’ll keep working on him. You’ll be home for Christmas, yeah?” 

“Yes, I suppose I will.” Christmas seemed ages away, but it was probably the first real chance she would have to talk to Harry without anyone around. 

“We’ll see what we can do then. Try not to worry about it,” Ron told her, but they both knew that wasn’t going to happen. 

Hermione pushed back from the table. “Let Lavender know that I would be happy to look over her materials again before she submits them to publishers if that is the route she chooses to go.” 

“Thanks. I’ll let her know.” He stood as well, pushing in his own chair. 

Hermione grabbed her bag, pulling it over her shoulder. “Ron, I’m really glad she has you. She deserves something good.” Ron just nodded, looking anywhere but at her as she turned to leave. 

**Saturday, October 31st**

Harry reached for Ginny’s hand as they left the Three Broomsticks. “You think they’ll be okay?” he asked. 

“I don’t know. Hermione said they had something to talk about.” Ginny laced her fingers with his and let him lead her down the street. 

“Yeah, Lavender’s written some article,” Harry told her. “I guess Ron wanted Hermione to read it.” 

Ginny looked over at him aghast. “He’s an idiot.” Harry couldn’t disagree. 

“No one ever accused Ron of being great with women,” he laughed. 

“You think he’s going to bring her to Christmas?” Ginny asked, frowning. 

“I guess he will.” Harry shrugged and turned past Madame Puddifoot’s shop, leading her around the back. He wanted her alone, to kiss her, hold her for a moment. 

“I can’t believe he’s back with her,” Ginny huffed, not missing a beat as Harry pulled her away from the street. “I was really hoping he and Hermione would figure things out.”

“I know, but they seem different? Well, he does at least. I haven’t seen them together yet.” Harry stopped once they were behind the building and pulled Ginny into his arms to kiss her. 

“I miss you,” she mumbled against his mouth. 

“I miss you, too,” he told her. He held her against him for several minutes, enjoying her presence so close to his. He had forgotten how well she fit into his arms, how warm she made him feel. 

Ginny pulled back, brushing her hair from her eyes. “My mum wrote me,” she told him, and he wasn’t quite sure what to say. 

“What did she say?” he asked. 

“She wants to know if I’m coming for Christmas, and she loves me.” Ginny crossed her arms, holding onto her shoulders. 

“Do you think - maybe it would be better if you stayed with them,” Harry told her, even though it hurt everything in him to suggest it. He needed her. 

“Really?” She asked, frowning.

“I mean, if it’s going to make it better, then you probably should,” he explained. He hated this separation and his place in the middle of it. It just wasn’t right. 

“So, I should give her want she wants even though it’s killing us to be apart already?” Ginny took a step back. 

“It’s just … they are your family. I don’t want to come between you,” Harry told her. He knew he was messing this up, saying all the wrong things, but the Weasley’s had given up so much already, and he wasn’t going to be responsible for taking their daughter. 

“You mean you don’t want them upset with you,” she snapped. 

“Of course, I don’t,” he said quickly. 

“Why is what they think more important that what I think? Or what I need from you?” He could see the tension behind the words plainly on her face. 

“That isn’t true.” He tried to move closer, but she held out a hand between them. “Ginny, I love you.” 

“I know, but you love my family also, and sometimes it makes it really hard to do this. I should come first sometimes,” she told him.  

“You do come first,” he insisted, not sure how this conversation had become about her place in his life. She was so much to him. He was drowning without her, but he couldn’t be responsible for her pulling away from her family. He could still remember what it had done to Molly to not see Percy, what she had been like after Fred. Now, he had heard enough from Ron how hard it was on Molly. He knew his friend wasn’t doing it intentionally, but it hurt. 

“No, I don’t. If I came first, you would trust me to know that I need to be with you. I miss you, and I feel like this gap between us is just growing, and I hate it.” Her eyes were watery now, and Harry was struggling with trying to put together words, to string thoughts into sentences. He knew she was right. Something  _ was _ between them, but he didn’t know how to help it. He thought maybe it was this, that she resented him for causing this rift, but apparently it wasn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, unsure what exactly he was apologizing for. This was so much harder than he had ever imagined. 

Ginny sighed, pushing hair the wind had blown into her face back behind her ear. “I’m coming to stay with you for Christmas like we planned. I’ll … I don’t know … write my mum.” 

“Okay,” he said, and he tried to step closer and she let him. “I don’t want anything between us.” Ginny just looked up at him sadly, as if there was something going on behind her eyes that he couldn’t possibly understand. 

“Let’s just go do our shopping,” she told him as she reached for his hand. 

**Saturday, October 31st, 1998**

Hermione knocked on his door, hesitant and certain at the same time. She wasn’t sure where they stood. She wasn’t sure what he was or what it meant that he had spent the night in her bed exactly a week ago before slipping back to his own before anyone woke up. She wasn’t sure what it meant that they somehow were just able to keep on with their lessons despite this as if nothing had changed. 

She was very sure that she liked it. She was sure that she wanted to kiss him again. She was quite positive that not giving a fuck what other people thought when she was with him was precisely what she needed in this moment. She was sure that when she realized he wasn’t at the feast, the only place she had wanted to be had been here with him. She was also very aware that that realization was terrifying.  

Draco pulled the door open, looking out at her surprised. “You should be at the feast,” he said. He was in his jeans and jumper, his hair softly falling onto his forehead, eyes surprised. He looked very good. She had found herself thinking about silly things, such as his arms or chin, lately. She was attracted to him, surely. There was absolutely no denying that now that she had kissed him, had his body against hers, thoughts of doing this, and other things, were not anywhere near rare. 

“So should you,” she replied, crossing her arms as she shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. Truthfully, she was terrified. This felt like somehow making a move, asking for something to happen. 

“I don’t want to go,” he told her, leaning against the frame. 

“Me either.” She looked into his room, avoiding the bit of skin at his waist that had been revealed when he had shifted. He followed her gaze.

“Want to come in?” he asked. He was either much better at masking his own emotions or he truly didn’t care. 

“Sure,” she said as if this wasn’t lighting every nerve in her body with anticipation. He moved back, letting her pass before he closed the door. She wandered, moving aimlessly around the room, taking in the features she already knew. He walked back to his bed and placed his book on the bedside table before sitting down. She turned to face him, and he smiled. 

“You going to sit?” he asked, and she bit her lip. She was nervous and excited about what might happen if she sat down on his bed, but she shrugged as if she wasn’t, making her way over to him. She moved onto the bed, sliding her legs under her as she faced him. 

“How are you sleeping?” he asked, relaxing against his headboard. 

She shrugged again. “Not great.” The night he had held her until she had fallen asleep, she had relished in his warmth at her back and not woken until morning. She hadn’t remembered having any more nightmares, and she felt a little more alive the following day. The very next night she had gone back to her normal struggles. 

“I could stay over again,” he suggested, his mouth curling up in a smirk.

She shook her head at him. “You shouldn’t have stayed then. If you got caught sneaking back, we would’ve both been dead.” 

“We’re of age,” he shrugged. 

“We’re still at Hogwarts,” she told him. 

“McGonagall obviously sees us a little differently than the rest of the students. She put us in this dorm after all,” he said, motioning around them. 

“True,” Hermione agreed, though she was still fairly certain the headmistress was not going to be supportive of him staying the night in her room.

“So, why aren’t you at the feast,” he asked. 

“I wasn’t in the mood. I saw Ron today, and Halloween is always weird. Not having them at the feast would just be-” She shrugged as if this explained everything she felt about her two best friends not being there and left unsaid that she had glanced over at the Slytherin table and saw him missing. It had been an easy decision then. She had been wanting to talk to him outside of their tutoring all week, to feel the way she had felt when he had held her last weekend as she had fallen asleep. 

“You met with Weasley?” he asked. She was sure that he meant this to sound casual, but it was fairly obvious he wanted more information. 

“He asked me to read something for Lavender.” She told him, hoping that he would connect the dots without her having to outright deny that there was anything going on between her and Ron.

Draco screwed up his face. “Are they?” 

“Yes. They are,” she said. 

  
“And?” he asked, watching her carefully. 

“I’m happy he has someone,” she said. It was the truth, which she tried to convey to him through her expression. 

Draco looked at her, examining her reaction for a long moment until she shook her head at him, tired of the scrutiny. “What did he want you to read?” he asked. 

“She wrote an article about her attack,” Hermione told him, the words suddenly more difficult to form. 

“Her attack?”

“Greyback attacked her during the battle. She was in the hospital for months. It was really … terrible.” Images of Lavender before they had taken her to St. Mungo’s flashed across her memory. It had been horrifying. Hermione still couldn’t quite believe that she had lived through it. 

“Oh,” he said, the weight of that day hanging between them as memories surfaced without permission. 

“Yeah. I guess it’s helping her heal or something.” She pulled at her lip with her teeth wondering what it might be like to find something that could take some of that weight away. 

“What are you doing? To help you heal or something.” His words were soft, softer than normal, and she felt a lump in her throat.    
  


“I don’t know,” she said. “What about you?” 

He moved closer until their knees were touching. “I guess, being around you helps,” he told her. 

“Yeah,” she answered, as her fingers moved forward to slide between his, “it does.” Their eyes were both staring down at their joined hands. 

“Tell me,” he began and faltered. 

“What?” she prompted, curious and a bit anxious about what he could want to know. 

“Tell me about your nightmares,” he said. She looked at him for a long time, contemplating whether they could handle this, whether they were ready, but she supposed she could never know that until they tried. She pulled her hand back from his, and her fingers lingered at the edge of her shirt sleeve as she took several steadying breaths. She could almost feel him stiffen in front of her. He knew, of course. She began to fold the shirt up her arm carefully, avoiding his face and whatever lay there for her to see. 

She stared down at her arm and let her fingers slide once down the scars. “Her. It’s nearly always her.” 

“Am I there?” he asked, and his voice was unlike anything she had ever heard, filled with terror. 

“Sometimes,” she croaked, the word getting stuck in her throat. It was terrible to admit, to think about. She didn’t want him there. He no longer belonged in that dream. 

“I’m so sorry,” he told her. “I know it’s not enough, but I’m so sorry.” 

“I always wanted to know what you were thinking,” she told him, her voice barely audible. 

“I was just scared,” he told her. “I don’t know if there was anything left to think except fear.” 

“Yeah.” She started to pull down her sleeve, but he stopped her. His fingers hovered over her skin for a moment, and then they were touching her  _ there _ . A shiver of something she didn’t want to understand ran up her arm and through her body. She looked up, her eyes meeting his as the pads of his fingers gently traced the letters. 

Without allowing herself time to think, she reached for his sleeve, pushing it up his forearm with one hand. She saw the vulnerability in his eyes, but she didn’t care. His hands on her scar was the most intimate touch she could imagine, and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to reciprocate. She moved her fingers back to his hand where his palm lay open. Her fingertips began along the deep groves of his hand and moved up his wrist, up his forearm, until she reached the edge of his scar. Her breath quickened as he winced, but she moved forward, just a hair, and then she could feel the terrible raised edges beneath her fingers, and his eyes asked a desperate question, imploring her to speak, but she couldn’t. 

Instead, her entire body moved forward, rocking onto her knees, hands sliding up to his chest. Her weight pressed against him, pushing him down to the surface of the bed, and she kissed him, her lips falling onto his in a desperate passion. His arms slid around her body as if he could possibly pull her closer. 

“Hermione,” he whispered, and the noise she made was something between hunger and satisfaction. She grabbed his hand in hers, pushing up the fabric of her shirt as she slid to one side. She moved his fingers to trace the purple lines on her stomach. 

Draco pushed her further onto her back and then moved over her. He pulled at the shirt, pushing it off her head until her stomach lay bare before him. He took in the sight of her as she bit her lip nervously. Then his hand fell gently onto the scar again, tracing each groove with a devotion unparalleled by anything she had ever experienced. His knees bent, allowing him to dip his head, and then his tongue followed the same paths across her skin and her hips pressed up, up, up into him searching for something. She pulled at his hair, bringing him up to kiss her again.

He slid his tongue across her lips before he moved it past the barrier, tasting her tongue with his. She moved her hands up his back, yanking at the fabric. She wanted to see them, to feel them for herself. He seemed to understand because he helped her pull it off, and then returned to his knees over her. His chest laid bare before her, long, deep scars stretching across the pale expanse.  _ Harry did this _ .  _ He lives with this.  _ The emotion slammed into her as she reached out, and she could feel the tears in her eyes. Tears for Harry, and Ron, and Draco, and herself, for everything they had endured that was too much to ask of anyone, let alone children. 

He leaned down again to kiss her, brushing her cheek with his thumb. He stopped for only a moment to mumble, “We survived,” against her lips. She sobbed into his mouth, and he gripped her side as he rocked against her. She pressed her hips up against the movement, and her body screamed for more of him as her mind weakly protested. She ignored it. 

His fingers moved up her thigh, sliding under her skirt, and suddenly he was gently stroking her over her a thin layer of cloth. “Draco,” she breathed, and he let their foreheads rest together as their heavy breaths mingled. 

“Let me,” he begged, and she nodded, tremors of anticipation and want shaking her. She felt the cloth move to the side and then the tips of his fingers stroking her slit, moving up and down in a slow, steady gesture. A moment later he pressed a finger inside of her, and she resisted the urge to buck again. She let out a soft whimper instead, and he grinned against her mouth. He began to move in a rhythm, and she closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation. Having him inside of her was nothing at all like touching herself. He was intentional with his movements, as if he had done this before, but she didn’t want to think about that. She concentrated on the way he touched her, the way she felt in response. Within minutes he was adding another finger, and she stretched to accommodate him. He began to kiss her as his fingers moved, his lips sucking gently on her neck. At one point, his teeth grazed her skin at the same moment his thumb found the bundle of nerves waiting desperately to be touched just above his fingers, and she moaned. 

“Quiet,” he whispered against her throat, and she remembered that there would be six other people returning to their rooms tonight. She couldn’t quite bring herself to care, but she did try to control the noises slipping out. 

“Draco,” she muttered his name again as she tensed, and he chuckled amidst kisses on every inch of exposed skin he could find. Her hands clenched against his blanket, and her body began to shudder with ecstasy followed by a sweet flood of relief. He moved to kiss her, and she responded languidly, still basking in the aftermath.

His hands slid up over her skirt and sent shivers across the skin of her stomach. Hermione stirred in response, moving her hands to fumble with his belt. She didn’t care if this was crazy, or if she shouldn’t want him. She  _ did _ want him. She wanted more of that blissful sensation of the world coming apart and back together again. She wanted to make him feel the same, to give him the same release. They had both been so broken, so torn apart, but this was different. This was good and right in the same way his arm around her waist and his chest against her back had been the weekend before. He was hurt in the same way she was, and he understood her pain in a way that others could not. She hid it from the world, kept it inside covered with lies. With Draco, there was nothing to hide. He knew all too well what she had been through, what she had endured, and he had done the same. He needed her to see him, fully and without censure, just as much as she needed the same from him. 

Their eyes met, so many questions hiding behind them, and she answered them all with a shove of his trousers and pants down his thighs, her thumb running down his leg in the process. She had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but she couldn’t find enough forethought to care. She needed more. He shimmied his legs, pushing the material until it fell off his feet, abandoned at the end of the bed. He was naked above her, and her eyes roamed, trying to memorize every inch of skin she could see, every nick, flaw, or blemish. They were irreparably marred, a matching set of scars that ran deeper than skin and bone. 

One hand ran across the fabric of her skirt, pausing at the center. He was staring at her as the clasp came undone, as she arched to let him push it down her legs. Her knickers followed quickly behind, helped by her own hands as his breath hitched. He was staring down at the newly revealed skin when her fingers reached the clasp of her bra. Her hands were shaking, nerves taking their toll even in certainty. She pulled the last of her clothing away from her body and licked her lips as he slid his eyes up to hers again. 

“Hermione.” Her name rolled off his lips in a husky, low tone that sent hot liquid down her spine. “Have you … before?” 

  
She bit her lip, brought her fingers up to touch his chest again, and shook her head. “Have you?” 

“No,” he said, hesitant in his admission, but she felt a sense of relief wash over her that they were in the same place going in. “Should we …” Draco glanced over at his wand on the bedside table, and Hermione shook her head again as she understood his meaning. 

“I take a potion,” she told him, not wanting to bring up Ron or confess that months and months ago she had gone to St. Mungo’s thinking that she might be one day soon losing her virginity to one of her best friends. 

Draco looked down at her for a few moments, both of them all too aware of what they were doing, and she leaned up to break the tension, brushing her lips against his. He seemed to melt over her, relaxing again as they kissed softly. He shifted from his position slightly to her side, and the hardened length pressing against her thigh moved across her skin, sending suspenseful tremors straight to her core. His hand moved down her chest, pausing to hold her breast as his mouth relocated to one of her nipples, languidly tasting it. As he moved to the other, his hand resumed its path moving down her stomach and back to her slit. His fingers slid in easily this time, and she tried to imagine what it would feel like when he pushed inside of her, when she stretched around him. She moaned softly as her hips moved up to push his fingers deeper. He breathed heavily against her chest, and pulled his hand back to wrap around his cock. 

The tip brushed against her, and she could feel his hand shaking against her thigh as he positioned himself. She moved her hands to his face, pulling him up to kiss him, needing the distraction. Even so, she was hyper focused on the sensation of him pushing inside of her. He moved slowly, and she did indeed feel her body stretch and tighten around him as he continued, filling her. It was unlike anything she had experienced with her own hands or his. It felt deliciously good and foreign at the same time. 

“Fucking fuck,” he muttered when he was sheathed in her, not moving. “I might come right now.” His voice was tense and trembling, and she felt a fierce, unexpected pride in her ability to bring him to this point so quickly. She wiggled beneath him, experimenting. She ached in the best possible way. He groaned, and Hermione smiled as she pressed her hips up into his. In response, he pulled back. She sighed against his mouth as his length rubbed against her sensitive lips. When he moved back inside of her, she clutched his hips with her fingers, and he dug his hands into the sheets beside her. His rhythm was slow, which seemed to be self-preservation as much as it was for her, if it was at all. 

“Is this … ?” he asked, avoiding her eyes. 

“Really good,” she replied, feeling a flame in her cheeks at the words that came to mind, words she couldn’t imagine ever saying to him. 

He buried his head in her neck, his lips kissing the soft skin below her ear. “You feel amazing,” he whispered, and she closed her eyes, unable to resist the smile that spread across her lips. 

“Can you … faster?” she responded, changing the subject. 

Draco pulled his hips back quickly. “Yes,” she hissed, and he pushed in with the same fervor. “Oh.” She couldn’t stop the small noises as new sensations surprised her. Draco’s grip on the sheets seemed to tighten as his teeth grazed her neck. She rocked into him as he moved, meeting him with eager wonder as she documented each moment behind her heavy lids. 

“Shit,” he muttered. “I’m really not …” 

“It’s fine,” she told him, even though she wished this could last longer, that she would be able to feel him inside her as long as she wanted.  _ We can do it again.  _ The thought came unbidden, but she already knew that she was lost in him, that she would take this escape with him again and again and again as long as he wanted her. 

  
Draco moved one hand from the sheet, palming her breast, rolling his thumb over her nipple as his breaths became even heavier. She dug her fingers in deeper, the anticipation of his climax exciting her more than she ever expected it to. It was powerful to feel wanted, to feel truly sexy for the first time in her life. He was barely holding on, and it was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. 

“Hermione,” he croaked out her name as his face moved, his lips meeting hers fiercely, as he seemed to fall apart, his hips moving with an unsteady rhythm for one, two, three more thrusts before he was still. 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen 

Saturday, October 31st, 1998

Hermione fell against the door to Draco’s room the moment it closed behind her. She had just had sex with him. 

Sex.

With Draco. 

The very last person she had expected her first time to be with, and it had been amazing. She shivered as her eyes fell shut, and she remembered the way it had felt to have him so close, as near to a part of her as it was possible to be. They weren’t even really together, or maybe they were. Everything just seemed so right with him, as if it was perfectly natural for her to skip the feast to be with him. Ginny would ask her where she had been. She would have to find some excuse, some lie, because this truth was too much to share. They weren’t even really together. 

She pushed away from the wall and moved to the shower to turn on the water. She dropped the rumpled clothes and wand she had hastily collected onto the sink and glanced into the mirror. Her hair was a fucking disaster of course. Her lips were full and red, and her skin seemed to be glowing. That was probably some trick of the mind or sweat. 

She closed her eyes, remembering him, his skin, his hair, his lips. She would take them again right now. Her body ached and there was a not entirely unpleasant soreness between her legs, but she would have him again in an instant. She had been awash in him, and he had buried every bad and cruel memory so deep inside of her that for a small stretch of time she had forgotten them entirely. She hoped that it had been the same for him, that she had provided some respite from the pain that haunted him, that made him hers. 

She turned away from the mirror, frighted away from her reflection at that thought. He wasn’t hers. They weren’t even really together. She reached her hand under the water, perfect as always, and climbed inside. 

XXX

Hermione had slipped out of his arms to go clean up, and he had lain in bed, staring at the ceiling. She was fucking incredible. There was no getting around that. He was pretty sure that as far as first times went, theirs was damn good, and he was so bloody pleased. She had melted against him in the aftermath, their bodies seeming to fit so perfectly together even when he was no longer inside of her. 

He let his eyes fall closed as the water ran behind the closed door. He had no idea what the hell any of this meant. He was a fucking Death Eater. He had done terrible things, been the antithesis of everything she fought for, and yet, she was here. 

What did it mean? 

He had felt so close to her from the moment she touched the scarred remains of his mark. He had been consumed by her, driven forward as he pulled at her sleeve, as she lifted her shirt, baring the outward reminders of their complicated past to him. The sight had made him ache with a need to heal them, to make them part of something good. 

He rubbed at his face with his hands before he pushed against the mattress, moving out of the bed. He wondered if it was possible for her to see him as something good, to see what they had done as good. He was terrified, honestly. Terrified from the moment he’d whispered, let me. Hermione Granger deserved so much more than him. Surely, she knew this. Surely, she would wake up to this truth as she stood in the shower and washed away the evidence that he had ever touched her. 

His feet padded to the dresser. His hands mindlessly pulled out clothes and dressed his body. Just don’t let her hate me. 

He didn’t know what to do as he waited. Thankfully, she didn’t take long. Shortly after he stopped pacing and decided to sit at the end of his bed to wait, she emerged from the bathroom looking much the same as she had when she entered his room earlier that evening. She averted her eyes, looking around the room, but not at him. He rose from the bed as she crossed her arms and bit her lip. 

“Hey,” he said. 

She blushed, bringing up a rosy tinge to her cheeks. “Hey,” she told him, finally meeting his eyes. 

He moved closer to her, taking quick steps before he lost his nerve. His hand rested on the back of her neck, and he gently moved her closer to kiss her lips softly. She let her fingers curl into his shirt as she deepened the kiss. Memories of the way she felt beneath him flashed through his mind, threatening to convince him to pull her back to the bed. 

“You should go,” he told her, breathing the words against swollen lips. 

“I know.” She didn’t move. Her body remained pressed against his, her hands now gripping his sides tightly. 

“I’ll never let you sleep if you stay,” he said. His fingers traced up her arm. 

“I’ll never be able to sleep if I go,” she answered, looking up into his eyes. 

“We can’t keep doing this,” he reminded her. “We’ll get caught.” It was inevitable. They shared a common space with too many people. 

“I know,” she said softly. “I just don’t think I care tonight.” His lips had just touched hers again when the knock made them both jump. 

“Draco?” a voice asked from the other side of the door. 

“Theo,” he whispered to her. He watched her eyes grow wide as she turned to the door. She did care after all. 

“I’ll go in the bathroom,” she whispered back.

“I’ll try to get him to go away quickly,” he promised as she began to move, taking sure, silent steps back to the bathroom. He waited until the door had shut softly behind her before he pulled open his other door to the common area. Theo was still in his robes, his arms crossed as he waited. 

“Is someone in there?” he asked, one brow raised. 

“No,” Draco pulled the door open a little wider, allowing Theo to let his eyes move across the room. The blankets on his bed were rumpled, but all signs of Hermione were safely inside his bathroom. 

“Thought I heard you talking to someone,” Theo told him. His eyes glinted with suspicion. 

“Just reading this play Granger gave me. She says it’s meant to be spoken aloud.” This was only half a lie. She had told him this once. 

“Hmm,” Theo said. Draco wasn’t sure if he was buying his half truths. “Why weren’t you at the feast?” 

Draco scoffed. “Oh, yes. That’s just what I needed tonight. To have the entire school staring at me.” 

“Not everyone in the school is as obsessed with you as they think you are,” Theo countered. Draco considered reminding him how the trip to the library had ended up, but decided against it. He needed Theo to go away. 

“Is that all you needed? I was going to head to bed.” Draco gripped the doorframe, making it clear that he had no intention of inviting Theo in tonight. 

“Fine.” Theo shook his head and looked back as two other students made their way into the common area. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. Draco nodded briefly and shut the door. 

When he turned, Hermione was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. “I guess you’re stuck with me for a bit,” she told him softly. 

“Terrible luck,” he said, but he grinned as he crossed the room. 

XXX

Monday, November 2nd, 1998

Two days later, with Hermione in front of him and the memories of Saturday night in his head, it was impossible for Draco to concentrate. She had muggle currency and was trying to show him how to use it, but he just kept staring at her exposed knee or her neck just below her ear and wondering what she would do if he reached out to touch her. He finally couldn’t handle it any longer. As she was telling him about the pound, or quid, or whatever it was, he put his hand on her knee, drawing small circles on her skin. She reached down without stopping to grab his hand and move it away, but he saw the merest hint of a smile at the edge of her lips. 

She continued on, and Draco leaned in as if to see what she was demonstrating with the money on the desk, but he turned and ran his lips along her jaw line. 

“You shouldn’t,” she whispered. 

“Why?” he asked, sliding his chair closer to hers as his hand rested back on her knee. 

“It’s just not right. We’re supposed to be studying,” she said. 

“I don’t care,” he told her. His fingers pushed the fabric of her skirt up her leg. 

“You will if you fail,” she told him, attempting to sound stern. 

“I won’t fail. You won’t let me,” he said, and his lips brushed against hers. Her eyes fell shut as she leaned into him. 

“Study time should be study time,” she argued. With each word, her lips moved against his. 

“What about a break?” He stood, and she followed, obviously failing to convince even herself that they should be working. Draco pushed his books back on the desk and lifted her onto it. She licked her lips, and he kissed that soft skin below her ear that had entranced him just moments ago. 

“We just started,” Hermione said softly, keeping up the pretences of an argument. 

“Yes, we did,” he agreed, chuckling softly against her neck as she gripped his hair tightly in her fingers. 

“I’m not sleeping with you on a desk,” she demanded, and it actually sounded like a real protest for the first time. 

“I’m not asking you to,” he told her, but he couldn’t deny that the prospect was delicious once it entered his mind. Maybe one day he could change her mind. 

XXX

Friday, November 6th, 1998 

Harry heard the footsteps approaching his desk and looked up to find Ron towering over it, hands shoved in his pockets. “You’re coming home with me, yeah?” he asked. 

“I was going to -” 

“C’mon, Harry,” Ron insisted. “This will all be here Monday. They ran us ragged today. Come home, and let’s have a drink.”

Harry sighed and looked around his desk. He really had nothing to do except look over more old case files. He was just avoiding home, but if Ron was going to be there, then it would be all right. “Yeah, okay.” He pushed up from his desk and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair to pull it on over his arms. 

“Good. You’re here more than anyone else. They are going to have you take the first year exam early if you aren’t careful. The papers will go nuts. ‘Infamous Harry Potter Blows Auror Exam Out of the Pitch. Youngest Official Auror in a Century’”

“Just what I need,” Harry laughed and shook his head. He wanted nothing more than to give the Prophet nothing else to report on as long as he lived. Unfortunately, his current position seemed to be failing to do that. Every week at least, there was a new article about him printed. He was still mentioned nearly every day. It was considerably less funny without Ginny around to tease him about them. 

Ginny. 

That was a topic he was attempting to avoid thinking about these days. He still wasn’t convinced that her staying at Grimmauld over the holiday’s was a great idea, but there was no way he was going to argue the point any further. He could see her side of it now, sort of, but it was also hard to know that he was part of keeping Ginny from them. He rubbed at the back of his neck as he reached down to grab the file he had been going over. 

Ron’s hand reached it first, landing firmly on top of it. “Leave it,” he said firmly, and Harry frowned up at him. “One weekend. Just one where you don’t drown yourself in invisible work.” 

“Fine,” Harry told him, resigned. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and moved around the desk to leave. 

Ron followed after and quickly came up to his side. “So, you want to play chess tonight? Maybe Exploding snap?” 

“What is Lavender doing?” Harry asked, not looking over to Ron. He could see his best friend shrug anyway. 

“Parvati is going over there. She’s not crazy about me,” Ron admitted. 

“Because Lavender dumped you when she thought you were in our dorms alone with Hermione, and now you’re back with her?” Harry asked, laughing. 

“Well” - Ron ran a hand through his hair - “yes, I suppose that’s probably it.” Ron grinned. 

“So, you are together,” Harry said. 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, shrugging again. 

“Does Hermione know?” Harry asked, hoping that the answer was yes. He didn’t need them arguing over this also. They didn’t need another thing between them. 

“I told her last weekend,” Ron said, and Harry was grateful. 

“Good. She’s okay with it?” The reached the lift and stopped. 

“She seemed fine. Not great, but said she was happy for me.” Ron looked sheepish despite his words. 

“Are you bringing her to Christmas? Ginny was asking.” Harry tried to sound like it was no big deal to bring up Ginny, but the truth was it was hard to get her name past his lips to her brother. 

“Yeah, I expect I will.” Ron said as the lift doors opened. The woman inside stared openly as they walked inside. Harry tried to ignore her. 

“Ginny’s supposed to write your Mum. Let her know that we’ll be there,” Harry said quietly. 

“Good,” Ron said, and Harry could tell that he wanted to say more but wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the woman or because of their friendship. “Mum will be glad.”


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Sunday, November 8th, 1998

One week. 

It had been a week, and he was utterly consumed by her presence and absence. Tonight, it was her absence that drove him mad. For five days straight, he had been able to hold her, kiss her, taste her as his hands ran over her clothes, and then it was the weekend, and he hadn’t seen much of her at all. She came to meals with Weasley’s sister and left with her too, and she’d been talking to Longbottom when he walked through the dorm to his room earlier that evening from dinner. Otherwise, nothing. 

It was killing him.

He didn’t want to admit it, but she was overtaking nearly all of his thoughts, only partially because of the memories of her in the same bed that he was laying in now, alone and tired, but unable to sleep. He didn’t even know why he was allowing himself to get so attached, so entwined. She was Hermione Granger. She belonged with Weasley and Potter. As this thought crossed his mind, his hands clenched into fists. He forced himself to relax, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. They were her friends, just her friends, though he couldn’t figure out why she would want to be friends with either idiot, and she wasn’t his, except … 

Except, she certainly felt like his. 

She would probably be offended by the suggestion that he had some claim, some ownership over her, but he would gladly fall to his knees and beg to be hers, to give her everything in return. It was insanity, a quick and desperate spiral into the very thing that could destroy his life, or maybe even redeem it. 

His eyes closed as he tried to think of his mother’s face. What would she say? What would she think? He tried to remember his mother’s soft scent, the way she rubbed his back when he was young and couldn’t sleep, the way she was always sure and confident of what was right and true. She had always been Pure. She had always been beautiful and composed, until she wasn’t. At his trial, she had been something new, something entirely un-Malfoy. Could it be possible that she may come around, may understand? He doubted it. He loved his mother. She was nearly all he had left, but she was not a woman given to change or Muggles.

And, his father. There was no reason to even entertain the idea that he would ever accept Draco being involved with a Mudblood. He may as well try to date a Hippogriff, but his father was in Azkaban at least. He ran a hand down his face, rubbing away the memories of that place as well as his knowledge of what his father’s life must be like. He wanted to care, but somewhere along the way a sliver of resentment had pierced his skin and blossomed into anger that threatened to consume him. His father had done this to them all, driven them to this point. 

In the midst of his resentment and anger, Granger wrapped herself around him, stripping him bit by bit of each wrong and cruel piece of himself as she replaced it with something he didn’t entirely understand. She was the most delicious water, filling him with an incredible thirst for her way of looking at the world. While he longed to touch her, feel her, taste her more and more, he needed her in a way that went beyond simple physical desire and shook the foundation of who he was and what he represented. He was falling for her and becoming someone he barely recognized on the way down. 

Exhausted and resigned to not sleeping once again, Draco pushed at the blankets haphazardly strewn over the bottom half of his body, and he pushed up from the mattress. The worst part of the whole thing was knowing how close she was. She was a few doors down, and who knew if she was sleeping or not, probably not. She seemed to have the same insomnia that plagued him each day, though he wasn’t sure if her memories of the war were being slowly replaced with the ghosts of fingertips and tongues on skin as his were. 

His hand slid through his hair as he moved towards the door. He needed to get out of his room, to stretch his legs, and get some space between himself and her door, that stupid closed door which called to him as he strode across the common room and out of the eighth year’s dorm. The stone beneath his feet chilled his toes through his socks as he walked, not bothering to care if he was found out by a teacher. It had become clear over the past couple of months that his dorm mates were operating under a different set of standards than the rest of the of the student body.

He passed through the halls with a slow determination, not positive of any destination, but sure he wanted to put space between himself and Hermione Granger’s dormitory door. It would have been so easy to knock on the wood dividing them instead of leaving the common space. It would have been so easy to bury all these thoughts by pulling her close and pushing her down onto her bed, but they couldn’t be found out. They couldn’t be anything real, anything that anyone knew about. They were so different, no matter what the war, or Voldemort, or Azkaban, or Hermione had done to him. He could easily admit that she deserved something so much more than a Death Eater, and even if she forgot that, the world would never let her. Scandal was a soft word for what a relationship between the two of them would mean, so what exactly were they doing? 

He sighed again as he faltered for the first time, realizing that he had ended up in some tower or another. He spun around to gain his bearings only to notice that he was being followed. He pushed his hands into his pockets and waited as Theo moved closer. 

“What are you doing?” Theo asked, and Draco shrugged, his expression stony. 

“Nothing. I just needed a walk,” he said. 

Theo stopped in front of him, glanced over to the nearby window and out at the dark forest. “You know, I’m trying.” Draco wanted to push back, to insist that he didn’t need Theo, or anyone else to try. He was perfectly fine, but that was a lie. 

“You don’t have to,” he said instead. 

“I know I don’t fucking have to,” Theo growled, his calm facade shattering as his fists clenched. “You aren’t the only one that is trying to figure out where the fuck to go from this shit situation.” 

“I know,” Draco began, but Theo swung his hand into the air. 

“No, you don’t know, Draco,” Theo spat. “You spend your days with Granger, who seems to have forgiven you for some completely insane fucking reason, and locked in your room, and you ignore the rest of it, the rest of us. I don’t get that luxury. I know I wasn’t as involved as you, but I’m still one of them whether they burned their mark in my skin or not, so stop being a fucking martyr and grow up.” 

“I’m not-” 

“You are. I’m done with it. I don’t want to be your cronie, and I don’t want to fight with you and Blaise over whatever idiotic status bullshit he seems to want.” Theo stared at the window again, his cheeks dark even in the faint light. 

Draco watched him closely, his mind sputtering as he considered Theo’s words. He had seemed to genuinely attempt to build some sort of friendship over the past few months, and his father had been arrested and put into Azkaban the same as Draco’s. It was possible that he only wanted a friend, someone who understood what it was like to be him. 

“Okay,” Draco said, deciding that he was going to have to trust someone eventually. It may as well be Theodore Nott. 

“Okay,” Theo repeated. 

XXX

Monday, November 9th, 1998

Hermione was reading as she walked down the hallway to her tutoring appointment with Draco. They were taking the day off practical lessons, so she was meeting him in the abandoned classroom they had taken over for snogging and studying. It seemed that last week the snogging had somehow become more important than the studying, and she was intent on changing that. She knew that they needed to focus on his lessons, but he made it so damn hard when his hands touched her skin. She could still remember the way he had felt as he had moved inside of her just over a week ago, and a large part of her was desperate to feel that connection again. The moments stolen in the classroom were not the same. They were heavy and satisfying in a different way, but they didn’t provide the open intimacy that she had experienced when they had been bare to each other in his room. She was intent that they would get back to business, that she would be firm and insist that they complete his work before any touching was allowed. She would sit on the opposite side of the desk instead of next to him. She would keep her robes on because he seemed unable to keep his eyes from drifting across her body.

This plan, however, went to total shit the moment the Prophet landed in front of her at breakfast, though she wasn’t aware of it. She scanned the paper quickly as she had done every day since meeting with Lavender, and today it was there. The front cover sported an image of Lavender Brown, her scars prominent across her neck. Hermione had to resist the urge to reach out and touch the image. She could easily imagine how Ron had come to blame himself and feel responsible for this horrible reality. Lavender had been fragile and cute before, but something in her eyes confirmed what her words had already told Hermione. The girl was gone. In her place, a stronger, more confident woman sat, her smile filled with determination. Hermione thought the only word to fit the image was beautiful.

She ate her breakfast quickly and then excused herself to go to her tutoring appointment. As she walked, she read the article, happy to find that Lavender had taken nearly all of her suggestions. Hermione hoped that she would take her suggestion of writing a book as well. Her words were stirring, blasting the community at large for their demonization, ignorance, and segregation of Werewolves. Lavender claimed forcefully that it was this stigma that had led Werewolves to feel like they must fight for any right to power and ownership in the world, a feeling that had led to monsters like Greyback who would attack for sport, destroying lives without concern. It was sure to begin a discussion. A book would ensure it continued. 

Hermione was nearly done with the article as she arrived in the room that she and Draco had been using. She pushed the knob open with one hand as she stared down reading the paper clutched in her other hand. The moment she closed the door behind her, the paper was crumpled against her chest. She released it as her back hit the wall, and her lips were nearly assaulted by Draco’s. She let out a startled gasp which was lost as his tongue swirled effortlessly around hers. Hermione dropped her bag, not caring that several somethings fell out of it and onto the floor. Draco’s hands were on her robes then, pushing them away from her body, and she scooted closer to him to let it fall behind her. His fingers dug into her thighs next, pulling them up as her back hit stone again. Her feet crossed behind his back and one hand moved up to pull at her shirt. 

“Fuck,” he hissed before his mouth slid feverishly down her throat. Hermione pulled at her tie, loosening it and tossing it down at his feet. Draco sucked at her throat above her shirt, and Hermione pushed him back, knowing that he would leave a mark. She pulled at the buttons, revealing the curves of her breasts to him. He dived, devouring the soft skin, which was more easily covered by her shirt, with grazing teeth and eager kisses. Hermione let out a moan, and her head hit the wall. She had not expected this. He had never once sprung on her like this. He had waited patiently, biding his time until they were working to gently coerce her into a break. This was new, and this was making her want him even more than she already had. 

“Draco,” she sighed, her fingers reaching for his hair, gripping it tightly. 

“Fuck your rule, Hermione. Please,” he responded. His hand moved under her skirt, demonstrating exactly what he was after by sliding a finger down the front of her knickers, and she was inclined to not give a damn. What did it matter really if they had sex in his bed or here in this room. 

“Lock the door,” she told him, and he let out a sound of triumph. He settled her feet back to the ground and pulled out his wand to lock the door. Hermione became aware of her wildly thumping heart as she watched him, knowing what she had just agreed to. She wanted it, but that didn’t make it any less nerve-wracking to actually be doing it … again. 

Draco spun the moment his charms were in place and dropped his wand in a needless show that he didn’t care about anything but her in that moment. She could see his eyes now. They were burning ice, a contradiction she wasn’t sure she would have ever used before this moment. He stalked back to her, and she let out a horrible, stupid giggle as he pushed her back towards the teacher’s desk. “I’ve wanted to do this all week,” he told her. 

“Me too,” she admitted, not sure why she had ever thought sex on a desk was undignified. It sounded exquisite in the moment. Draco grinned, as if he had known that she would eventually be letting him lift her onto the wooden surface, his fingers crawling under the sides of her knickers to pull them down. She lifted her bum to allow him to remove them, and he seemed to tremble, though she wasn’t sure if he was as nervous as she was or just anxious to be inside of her again. 

He pulled off her shoes in the same motions as her underwear, shoving her shirt up to her waist as she pulled her shirt off. One of his hands moved up her body to pull one breast free. His tongue circled her nipple and she arched her chest into his mouth, the sensation shot down her belly and between her legs. The hand still resting on her left thigh slid across her skin until his fingers were moving up her slit, no doubt finding her wet and ready for him. He groaned against her breast as two of his fingers buried themselves inside of her. 

Hermione reached for his trousers, unable to pretend like she wasn’t anxious for him. Draco let her fumble with his belt and shove at his trousers and pants. They fell to his shoes, and neither of them seemed interested in taking the time to remove them properly. Draco took a step closer to her, and Hermione’s fingers slid around his cock, positioning him at her opening. He removed his hand, leaving her aching to be filled again. As he pushed inside of her, she repositioned, gripping the edge of the desk with her hands. Draco paused when he was fully inside of her, both of them hardly breathing from the satisfaction of the sensation. 

When he began to rock against her, Hermione’s eyes fell shut as she focused on the movement, letting her mind shut off anything outside of this moment. She had been driving herself mad wondering what this all meant and what Draco was thinking, but she didn’t care right now. She would figure that all out later. All she wanted and needed was this here with him, the utter bliss of losing herself in him and knowing that he understood her in a way that no one else ever had. It was freeing in a way she had rarely ever experienced. He moved his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, and she gave into him entirely, trying to relay all of these thoughts to him with her body. 

XXX

Saturday, November 14th, 1998 

Ginny was flat against the wood of her broom. As she breathed in deeply, she could smell the ebony of the handle mixing with sweat, mud, and windy rain that flew loose pieces of her hair back against her ears. She was inches from the Snitch, her fingers stretched straight out in front of her as her knee brushed against the Slytherin Seeker’s head. She briefly considered moving her leg to knock him off course, but it wasn’t necessary. The very tip of her middle finger touched the wing of the Snitch moments before she clutched the golden ball in her palm. The rush of blood and wind pounded in her ears as she let out a jubilant sound of celebration that ended up somewhere between a grunt and a whoop as she readjusted her course for the ground. As she began to slow her pace, she could hear the thunder of cheers spreading through the crowd. 

Her feet touched the sodden dirt with a squelch a moment before she was engulfed with multiple limbs, her hearing all but destroyed by the screams of her teammates. She felt joy, true unfiltered, untouched, joy, coursing through her veins and settling in her heated cheeks. They had won. Everything had been against them, and they had done it anyway. 

“Ginny!” she heard his voice and turned immediately, her arms already reaching for him. Harry pulled her in tight, kissing her hard amidst the shouting and catcalls. “That was amazing,” he told her as she pulled back. His hand ran through his soaking hair as water ran down his glasses. He was smiling, and it looked genuine. She stared at him, knowing that she needed to savor this perfect moment between them. She was so glad that he had made the trip here for this, if only because it gave her this moment. 

“Thanks,” she leaned in to kiss him again, but stopped as his eyes moved behind her, and his jaw dropped. 

“I was under the impression you were a Chaser,” a voice said behind her. Ginny turned, spinning back towards the voice, and then she knew why Harry had been stunned. Gwenog Jones was standing behind them, a small smile on her face. Beside her, one of the Slytherin Beaters stood with a sullen expression on his face. The Holyhead Harpies Captain reached out her hand, and Ginny took it, still in amazement. “I’m Gwenog.” 

“Yes, I know,” Ginny sputtered, knowing that she sounded like an idiot and not really able to care. This was Gwenog Jones, holding her hand and speaking real words to her. 

“So, Professor McGonagall told me you were a Chaser,” she said again. The boy beside her shifted his feet, and Ginny glanced over at him confused by his presence and the news that Professor McGonagall was talking about her to Gwenog Jones. “This is my brother.” Gwenog clapped the boy on the back. “He doesn’t like to claim me.” 

“There will be no doing that now, will there?” the boy grumbled. 

“Oh, shut it.” Gwenog rolled her eyes at his words and turned back to Ginny. 

“My Seeker landed himself in detention this morning. I played Seeker for Harry last year, so I just did some shifting,” Ginny explained. Gwenog moved forward to extend a hand to Harry, who shook it, but her eyes moved quickly back to Ginny. 

“You’re damn good on that thing,” the older woman told her, motioning to the broom at her side. 

“I’ve been flying all my life,” Ginny told her. 

“The Headmistress seems to think you might want to make a career of it.” Gwenog shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to her at all, but the boy rolled his eyes. 

“She wants to give you a trial,” he told Ginny bluntly. 

“What?” Harry asked, his amazement and excitement palpable. Ginny felt her heart stall momentarily before it began to beat so loudly, everyone in the pitch must have heard it. 

As she glared down at her brother, Gwenog nodded. “He is tactless, but correct. I’d love to give you a trial after graduation. McGonagall has owled me about three players in the past few years. I’ve put every one of them on my team.” 

Ginny struggled for words as her world shifted, clicking in places that she hadn’t realized were bothering her. “Yes, of course, I would love to,” she said, still sure she sounded like an idiot. 

“Great,” Gwenog told her, “Pleasure to meet you both.” She nodded at Harry, and then she was walking through the mud towards the Headmistress, her brother on her heels. 

Harry chuckled beside her, and Ginny looked up at him. “What?” she asked. 

“It was kind of nice to be ignored. You better be damn good at Quidditch and get loads of fans. I liked it.” She shook her head at him, laughing, but she knew that somewhere inside of him, being ignored by the vast majority of people was all he really wanted.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Tuesday, November 17th, 1998

Harry wasn’t even quite sure how the letter had found it’s way to him. There must be some way for Muggle post to reach Wizards, but he hadn’t ever thought to figure it out. When he was at Hogwarts, it sort of made sense that his Aunt and Uncle had been able to send him the worst gifts imaginable, but this was different. There was no way that Dudley Dursley could even know where Harry lived to address the letter to him. It simply said, Harry Potter. Dudley’s name and address were scrawled in the upper left corner.

Without opening the envelope, Harry tried to imagine what reason his cousin could have for sending him a letter, but there was nothing he could think of. They hadn’t spoken in over a year, not since Harry had sent them off to safety. He had heard from the Ministry that they had been relocated back to their home on Privet Drive after the war had ended, and Harry hadn’t seen a reason to go and check up on them. He doubted this had been disappointing to any of the Dursleys, but perhaps he had been wrong. He wondered if something had happened to Petunia or Vernon. Would he want to know if that was the case? How would he feel about that? 

He touched the envelope with his fingers, feeling the smooth surface as he tried not to remember that life, but it was so difficult to forget. The many good and happy memories he had made at Hogwarts had never quite washed away the ten years spent with the Dursleys before he had realized that he was a wizard. He had been nothing more than a disappointment hidden away under the stairs. Surely there were people in the world with worse situations that he had lived there, but there was also much better. He had gone to be hungry. He had been frightened and neglected. He had been unloved and untouched for ten long years. He hated to think about it. He rarely did, to be honest. Late at night when he couldn’t sleep or close his eyes for fear of what waited in his nightmares, Harry would still wonder what he had lost on that Halloween night so many years ago. Who would his parents be now if they had lived? Who would he be? He had always been able to prepare himself for the moments when the Dursleys would reappear in his life for the summer, but this one had come at such a shock, just a letter that came with the post. He hadn’t had time to put up his defenses. 

Harry picked up the envelope, his finger pulling at the flap to reveal a letter. His fingers pulled out the piece of paper tentatively, as if they knew something he didn’t, but it was surely just nerves. He opened the fold and read, 

Harry, 

Thought we could have lunch sometime. Let me know. 

Dudley

And, that was it. Harry nearly laughed at himself for getting so worked up, but he was too surprised by the actual contents to manage it. 

As Ron moved into the kitchen, his hand rubbing furiously at his face, Harry shoved the envelope and note under another letter from Ginny. He wasn’t about to combine these two parts of his life. He had no idea if he wanted to respond, let alone get lunch with his cousin. It was best to wait until he had figured this out to involve anyone else, even Ron. 

“As much as last year sucked, it was kind of nice getting up whenever I wanted,” Ron mumbled sleepily as he headed for the cupboard. 

“And living in a tent and being hungry,” Harry added, laughing a bit,” that was just great.” 

Ron laughed also and shrugged. “Pros and cons, mate,” he insisted. 

XXX

Saturday, November 21st, 1998

Ron pushed through the door to the kitchen, relishing in the scents of home as they washed over his senses. Mum was cooking, of course. She was always doing something. It had eased a bit, for just a short while, and then the thing with Ginny happened, and it never really seemed to get right again. They hadn’t been as worried about babysitting her lately, but it was clear that the family was out of sorts, and everyone seemed unsure what to do for Molly. It was one thing to grieve Fred together, but Ginny was still out there, still living. Ron was sure that this was hitting her harder given the Percy situation. Percy had been a giant ponce during the war, and it had wrecked their Mum. Ron reckoned it was hard to not take it personal when two of your kids decided they wanted nothing to do with you, even if one had come around. 

Ron was hopeful that Ginny really was going to try and fix things over Christmas, and that his Mum would turn her traditional way of thinking about things long enough to let it happen. The Weasley’s were not a family that dealt well with estrangements and broken relationships. They were built around being entirely too much in one another’s space, love, and laughter. Sure, sometimes it was annoying to have a huge family, but after Fred, Ron wasn’t about to wish them away. 

He saw her right away as he closed the door, apron around her waist, hair pinned back with several loose strands falling onto her cheeks. “Ron,” she said loudly, a smile pulling at her lips. 

“Hey, Mum. Enough for me?” he asked, crossing the room. She let him kiss her cheek, even though she did look a little surprised at the gesture. 

“Always enough for everyone. Will Harry be coming?” She looked past him to the closed door as if she expected Harry to push it open and come in behind Ron that minute. 

“No,” Ron told her, “he’s working.” Ron wasn’t sure you could call obsessively combing through old case files for no reason working, but it was best in this situation to keep the details to himself. 

“It’s Saturday,” she said, dumbfounded. “Aren’t you both still training?” 

“I don’t know.” Ron shrugged and fell into one of the chairs at the table. “It’s Harry. He’s a bit …”

“Crazy,” George finished as he walked into the room. “Always has been. He was the Heir of Slytherin you know.” George winked at his mother as he passed her, and she gave him a disappointed frown. 

“He needs to slow down,” she said to them as she moved back to her stove. “He’ll wear himself out before he even really has the job.”

George opened his mouth to reply, but Ron cut in to end the conversation, not wanting to have to defend his best friend to his mother when he agreed with her. He had half a mind to start dragging Harry about with him to force him to have a bit of a life. “How’s the shop going?”

“Busy,” George told him. “I’m thinking about hiring some extra people for the weekends. We don’t really need it during the week, but we’re smashed on the weekends.”

“Did you tell him about the building?” Molly asked. She seemed genuinely excited for the first time in a very long time. 

“Well, I assumed you told everyone. Thought you must of wrote the Prophet and everything,” George teased. “I got final approval for the building in Hogsmeade about a week ago. Signing papers in two weeks.” 

“That’s bloody great!” Ron told him, unable to keep the envy out of his voice. Fred and George’s shop had was growing at an immensely impressive speed. George had gone a similar route of Harry lately with his work ethic, but Molly seemed to be a bit more successful at pulling her son away from his shop when she thought he needed a break. “I could help on weekends some, until you find some good people,” Ron offered, thinking perhaps he would get some free products out of the deal. 

“Yeah,” George told him, “That’d be helpful. We could use it. Verity might kiss you if you start right away.” He laughed, and their mother shook her spoon. 

“Now don’t be saying that nonsense around Lavender, George,” she chided, but Ron just ignored her. 

“Sure. I can come by tomorrow morning,” he offered.

“Yeah,” George agreed. “That’d be perfect.” 

Sunday, November 22nd, 1998

Hermione drew in heavy breaths as she waited, her nerves dancing under her skin. She had sent him the owl that afternoon in a fit of Gryffindor bravery she rather regretted now as she waited for him appear. Her door was barely cracked, just a hair, enough for him to push it open and slide in without making a sound. It was well after midnight, but she wasn’t tired. She was wide awake, thinking over her words. 

We need to talk. 

But, why? Why couldn’t she just leave things the way they were? Why did they need to talk? What did it matter that they had now had sex twice and spent time nearly every day snogging each other senseless? They could have carried on like that until, well, until … something else happened that forced them to deal with whatever was between them or the year ended. It would have been fine. 

Except, it wasn’t. She needed to know the answers to questions she hardly allowed herself to even think, let alone speak. She wasn’t sure how she was going to get those answers, considering she was trembling at the thought of having to come up with her own answers, but something had led her feet up those steps to the owlery. She hoped whatever it was would return tonight to help her navigate her way through this conversation. 

As she focused on her breathing, the door slid open, the shadow of his body slipped into her room, and the door shut firmly, but quietly behind him. She pushed up from her bed, her eyes meeting his in a moment of mutual nerves. She could see her own emotions reflected there. At least she wasn’t alone, but that was hardly reassuring. They were navigating unchartered territory, trying to feel their way along unmarked paths which seemed better left undisturbed. Hermione wasn’t one for following the rules, not in a long time at least. 

“You wanted to talk?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets as his feet shuffled. 

Hermione stood in front of her bed, feeling the mattress brush against the back of her legs. “Yeah, I thought we should,” she said. She pulled a loose curl behind her ear, and he followed the movement with a careful gaze. 

“What about?”

“This.” She motioned between them with one hand, unable to elaborate further. He knew what she meant. He must have known the moment he saw her note. 

Come to my room tonight. 

He must have been thinking, wondering the same things as her. How could he not? Unless he wasn’t. Unless she was seeing and thinking and feeling things that weren’t there. Her chest seized. This could be simply what it appeared, surface attraction, bodies being bodies. 

Except, that first time … 

The first time had been something more. There had been so much there. The things they said and didn’t say had woven around them, making it perfect, making her feel things she couldn’t begin to put words to. 

“Yeah,” he said simply. He stood at the door his shuffling beginning to drive her mad.

“You can come sit down,” she suggested. He looked at the bed behind her, and his eyes moved slowly to her body, heat behind them that sent a shiver down her spine. Maybe meeting in her room had been a terrible idea. They seemed to have an issue with keeping control. She turned away from him, moving around the bed until she took a seat nearer her pillows. Draco moved across the room as well, taking a seat across from her, his legs crossed before hers. He ran a hand through his blond locks as the silence filled the room around them. 

“Well, this is a good talk,” Draco said finally, a grin turning up the corner of his mouth. 

Hermione laughed nervously and shook her head as he broke the tension of their awkward dance. “Yeah, it’s great.” 

Draco moved then, leaning his body into hers, and Hermione flushed as he moved closer to her, his grin spreading wider as he watched her face with rapt attention. When he reached her, his lips touched her neck, softly moving up her throat to her own mouth. “We could not talk,” he suggested against her lips. The idea sounded extremely appealing to her, especially when one hand moved from her blankets to brush lightly against her breast through her shirt. 

“Draco,” she said, her voice cracking, “as much as I want to …” she trailed off, and he sighed as he sat back. 

“It was worth a try.” He shrugged, seeming to resign himself to the conversation at hand. She needed answers. As much as she didn’t want to talk about feelings and definitions and need labels, she needed to know what in the hell they were doing. 

“What are we doing?” she asked, her bravery slowly returning. 

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Draco told her, and she hated to admit, even just to herself, that his words hurt, cutting her somewhere she would rather ignore. Part of her hoped that he knew more that her, that he had figured this all out, but another part of her knew he was just as lost as she was, navigating this ride on sensations and reactions. 

“You didn’t want me with Ben. You kissed me,” she reminded him, hoping he would be able to tell her what that moment had meant at least. That inability to control himself, his desire to have her not with someone else, that had to mean something more than just a random kiss that led to more. People didn’t just go around kissing people they used to hate for no reason. 

“I know,” he agreed. His eyes moved down to watch his thumb stroke the back of his opposite hand. 

“So …” she prompted, starting to get annoyed with his lack of response as silence spread again. She was quickly beginning to hate the thick weight of quiet between them. Over the past few months, she had grown used to being comfortable in his presence. She didn’t want to go backwards, but what did forwards look like. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he told her, and she heard something tense in his voice. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact emotion, but she desperately wanted to. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, encouraging him to dig deeper. Give me more. 

Draco looked up from his hands, his eyes asking the question before his lips could catch up. “What could we possibly be?” 

Hermione licked her lips, bit down on the soft flesh, pulling at it hard. Her eyes fluttered shut as she blinked, an image of them out there in the world, laughing with Harry and Ron flashed behind her lids, and then she opened them, and he was still staring. “I don’t know,” she admitted. Surely not that. Ron and Harry wouldn’t understand. No one would understand. “I like you,” she whispered. It was stupid, utterly stupid, but she didn’t know how else to relay her emotions to him. It was something deeper than like. She knew that. Her fingertips on his mark had ended like. His tongue on her scars had buried something deep inside of her that was growing at a terrifying rate, something her words could not express. She wouldn’t let them.

Draco moved forward again in response, kissing her deeply as his fingers touched hers, their hands intertwining. “Just don’t make me stop,” he told her. 

She knew he wasn’t talking about this, about his body pressing hers down, and his fingers pulling at the hem of her shirt, but she didn’t stop him anyway. She let him pull her trousers down and lick his way back to her center, let his tongue slide between her lips, let him bring her shuddering to release, let him move inside of her as she gripped his back with desperation. She let him curl up behind her, his arm across her waist, let him pull her wild hair aside to kiss her shoulder good night. She let him think she was asleep. She let him whisper in her ear that he wasn’t ready to let go. She let him think she didn’t hear. 

She let him hold her tightly as he fell asleep behind her and tears slipped silently down her cheeks. That something deep inside her was gripping at her heart, holding it tightly as she tried to breath and pretend like somehow it was okay that she was falling for him.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Friday, December 4th, 1998

The letter was short, but that was fairly normal now. Before all of this, her mother’s letters had always been long, filling her in on everything she had missed at home as well as a slew of questions for Hermione, and responses to Hermione’s stories and questions in return. Now, they seemed to be in an unbreakable cycle of awkwardly short and impersonal messages. She had already read the words on this particular piece of paper nearly twenty times since it had arrived at breakfast that morning.

“What’s that?” Draco asked. She looked up from the letter to see him shutting the classroom door. He locked it behind him, a habit they had recently started. She set the note down on the desk, barely suppressing an audible sigh.

“My mum,” she told him. “Wants to know if I’m coming home for Christmas.”

“Are you?” he asked, moving across the room to drop his back on the floor beside hers. Hermione watched him move a chair closer as well and waited for him to pull of his robes and drape them across the back. His movements had become so familiar to her, so practiced. Yet, it was still so odd to be so comfortable with him. She could easily remember her nerves that first day back in the summer when she had been nervous to go meet with him. She hadn’t been prepared for this version of him at all. He had been broken, just like her, and that had allowed him the chance to start over. She knew that most people wouldn’t understand or believe it to be true, but she felt like she had watched the transformation, experienced it before her eyes. “Why are you staring at me Granger?” he asked finally, and she realized he was sitting now, looking back at her with a smug smile.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head, sure that there would be a flush in her cheeks. “I don’t know if I will go home.” She wasn’t sure what, if anything, there was there for her now. Her parents were still upset obviously. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to go home and argue with them or, and possibly worse, pretend like everything was okay the entire visit. Her other choices were staying at Grimmauld or at Hogwarts.

“I wish I could,” Draco said, and she realized how terrible she probably seemed to him. His father was in Azkaban, and his mother would likely be spending her Christmas alone as well while he was here at Hogwarts.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t think.”

“No, it’s not the same.” He shook his head, running his hand across the smooth wood of the desk, likely to avoid looking at her.

“It’s not, but you have no choice, and I’m over here worried about whether or not it will be uncomfortable to be around them. At least I could be with them.”

“If you don’t want to go, you shouldn’t,” he said, shrugging.

“What are you going to do here?” she asked, wondering if Blaise or Theo were staying behind.

“Theo is staying. He doesn’t have anyone to go home to,” Draco explained.

“So, you guys, things are still good?” she asked. It was sometimes hard to discuss their lives outside of this room, which just highlighted how stupid their actions probably were.

“Yeah. He seems to really just want to be friends. Merlin, I’m becoming a fucking Hufflepuff.” He scrunched his face in disgust, but Hermione laughed at him.

“It’s okay to have friends.” She told him. 

“It’s sort of new for me still,” he told her.

“Harry wants me to come stay at Grimmauld for break.”

“Who wouldn’t want to spend Christmas with the Potter and Weasley?” Draco said snidely.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “Harry is still struggling I think. I’d like to go see him.”

“And, Weasley,” he said.

“Ron will be there,” she agreed. “He lives there.”

“Is he still with Brown?” Draco asked, and she itched to point out how ridiculous he was being considering she had tried to talk to him about what they were doing, and he had said that they couldn’t be anything, that people wouldn’t understand, and yet he was here being jealous, or whatever it was, about Ron. It was frustrating to say the least.

“As far as I know.” Draco didn’t react. He just reached for his back, pulling it open to search for his book and notes. Hermione just stared at him. “I talked to Ben today,” she mentioned, hoping that it sounded causal, knowing that it probably didn’t.

Draco stiffened, his hand tightening on his book. “Yeah?” he asked, seeming to suffer from the same issue.

“Yeah,” she said. He sat up, dropping his work on the desk. His face was blank.

“What did you talk about?” he asked.

“He wants to talk,” she told him, knowing that this extremely vague explanation would irritate him further.

“You talked about talking?” he said, clearly losing his patience.

“I ran into him outside of Professor McGonagall’s office,” she said. She pulled open her own book.

“So, he wants to talk another time in private.” The was he said in private made her think back several years to when she had slapped him, the satisfying sound of her hand hitting his face.

“Yes,” Hermione said coldly.

“And?” Draco asked.

“And, I said I don’t know,” she was refusing to look at him, knowing that she would break if her eyes met his. 

“You don’t know,” he repeated. 

“It caught me off guard,” she told him, playing innocent.

“Do you want to talk to him?” he asked. There was no pretense now. His knuckles were white against the desk.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, even though she was sure she should stop.

“You don’t know?”

“Well, he said he was sorry, and I misunderstood him before.” This was true. He’d apologized profusely, begging her to meet with him when they could talk along. 

“About what?”

“He said … I don’t know. When I broke things off, it seemed like he was with me because I’m me.” Hermione was starting to regret the direction the conversation had turned, not wanting to relieve her sobbing moments in the bathroom stall.

“Isn’t that the goal?” Draco asked, confused.

“No, not like … because I’m just me, but because I’m Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s best friend.” She didn’t need to look at him to know he was staring daggers at her.

“And, you’re thinking about going to talk to him?” he demanded.

“Should I not?” she asked as innocently as possible.

“Is that what this is about? Some stupid girl thing to get me to talk?”

“I don’t …” she stopped, flustered, considering. “Maybe!” she retorted indignantly, realizing that was precisely what it was.

“Thank fucking Merlin,” he said, relieved.

“What?”

“I thought you were really thinking about going to talk to that idiot,” he said.

“Well, maybe I’ll let him apologize,” Hermione said, finally looking at him.

“He just wants to use you,” Draco insisted.

“How is that different from you?” she asked, only partially playing the part. He was so irritating. She had let him in, let him be something she had never experienced before, and he was being an idiot, insisting that things were too complicated to talk about anything outside of just sex.

“I’m not using you!” he snapped.

“Really? I tried to talk to you the other night and you just … you said we couldn’t be anything, and then we had sex anyway!”

“That’s … it’s complicated,” he told her, his tone pleading.

“I know it’s complicated. It’s complicated for me too, but I still want to talk to you about it,” she explained, not backing down. She couldn’t keep doing this to herself, not after she had finally admitted how she felt.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“I don’t care. Something! Anything!” She did care. She cared very much. She needed … wanted … hoped that he was feeling things, seeing them the same way she did, even if it would be hard to navigate.

“I …” He stared at her, his cheeks red, his hair tousled, and his mouth opened and closed several times.

“Just forget it,” Hermione said. She bent down to grab her bag, and he stopped her with his hand on hers, clearly frustrated.

“Just give me a fucking second, okay,” he huffed. Hermione pulled her hand back and sat back up, looking away from him to avoid having to watch him struggle. Every second that passed without him saying something hurt more than the last. “I don’t want you with him, or anyone else. If everything wasn’t so fucked up …” He trailed off and scooted his chair forward, closing the distance between them. He reached out, grasping her waist. His other hand slid up her side, grazing the fabric over her breasts with his fingertips and then coming to rest in her unruly hair. “I like you, too,” he said, responding to her words from that night. She leaned in expectantly, but he just pressed his forehead against hers, avoiding her lips. “You don’t know everything about me.”

“You don’t know everything about me,” she told him. Her hands were on his shirt, pulling at him, bringing him closer.

“I … when I was … I tortured people.”

Hermione tried to control her breathing as the words washed over her. “Okay,” she said, her voice trembled.

“He …” Draco tightened his grip on her hip, and in her hair, and she inched closer, trying to reassure him that she was listening, that she was giving him the chance to explain. “The first time, it was Rowle and Dolohov.”

“Oh.” Hermione let go of his shirt in her shock.

He looked at her, his eyes full of pain and remorse. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Hermione said, her heart was beating rapidly, her mind racing. “When was it?”

“The night the Ministry fell,” he told her.

Hermione nodded at the ground. The night the Ministry fell. The night that they had fought and escaped from those two Death Eaters in particular. She looked up, meeting his eyes. “He wanted them punished because we escaped them, right? Did you want to do it?” she asked.

He huffed, his hand finding the skin at the back of his neck, rubbing at the tension there. “It isn’t that simple.”

“He made you?” she asked.

“I took the mark,” he told her.

“You were a child,” she insisted. 

“I believed him.”

“I don’t care.”

“How can you not care? A year ago, what I would have done to you …” Draco shook his head, his eyes closing as he seemed to imagine what he had been capable of.

“Do you want to hurt me now?” she asked, her heart aching at his words.

“Of course not.”

“If someone made you, if he was here, if he …” – she knew she was crossing into dangerous territory, but she pressed on anyway, needing answers – “If he was here, would you do those things now?”

Draco leaned towards her again, moving his hands around her face. He pulled her closer, his lips touching hers, electricity sparked between them from the intensity of the moment. She felt her body tremble from her toes up, emption running through her in quick bursts. “No,” he said, in a moment of breath. “No,” he said between kisses. “I couldn’t,” he told her as he held her close. “You make me-”

“What?” she asked, desperately needing the rest of his words, the things he was struggling so hard to keep inside. “Tell me.”

“Bloody … Hermione, you know,” he insisted.

“No, I don’t,” she told him, begging for the words.

“Things are -” he breathed heavily against her mouth.

“Stop thinking about it so damn much,” she told him. 

“I’m fucking crazy for you, you damn insufferable know-it-all.” Draco pressed his mouth against hers, and she gripped his shirt tightly in her fingers once again, pulling him close. It wasn’t eloquent, but it was genuine, and it would do, for now.

XXX

Saturday, December 5th, 1998

The moment Ron walked through the Floo and into the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld Place, he knew something was wrong. Harry was resting against the long table his arms crossed, a half-eaten apple in one hand. His mouth was turned down at the edges, his eyes dark.

“What’s wrong?” Ron asked quickly. It couldn’t be his family. He had just left Weasley Wizard Wheeze’s where he had been working on inventory for George all day. If anything had been wrong with any of the Weasley’s he would have been easily reached. “Is it Hermione?” he asked, his mind racing to their best friend miles away at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall probably would have tried to get ahold of him and Harry after her parents if something was the matter.

Harry lifted the apple to his mouth slowly, his expression growing to display his annoyance more clearly as he bit through the green skin. He took his time, chewing the bite as Ron waited, wondering what on earth he could have done. If someone was hurt or needed them Harry wouldn’t be acting like a prat like this. He had gone to the shops yesterday for food. He had even given the floors in the main rooms a once over with his wand. Harry wiped juice from his lips with the back of his hand, and Ron stood still, waiting.

“Lavender,” Harry began, his voice low and thick with disdain, “has been here for two hours. Apparently -”

“Fuck!” Ron ignored Harry throwing his arm into the air as he continued to mumbled something about the dinner was supposed to have apparently cooked for his girlfriend, the girlfriend that he hadn’t seen in over a week. “Fuck,” he said again, his foot hit the bottom stair, and he took them two at a time, leaping up to his room as quickly as possible. She was going to be pissed, and rightly. And, Harry, that fucking wanker just stood there like a -

Ron pushed the door open quickly, flinching as it slammed against the wall and flew back to hit his hand again. Lavender looked up from her perch on his bed, her eyes flying wide open with surprise and then anger hiding hurt he knew would be buried under the surface.

“Hey,” she said softly as he struggled to inhale and exhale, his lungs on fire from the effort of getting to the room as quickly as possible.

“I’m … sorry …” he let out between breaths. Lavender just sat on his bed, her legs straight out before her, crossed at the ankles. Her thighs disappeared below the pleated skirt of her dark blue off the shoulder dress which showed the tops of her breasts and much of her scar to him. Her arms were also crossed over her stomach as she waited for him to be able to speak. It seemed he was going to be groveling a bit. “I was doing inventory. Our plans slipped my mind.”

“You forgot,” she said plainly.

“It wasn’t intentional, I just -”

“I didn’t say it was intentional. Just that you forgot. You invited me over for dinner because you haven’t had time to get together in over a week, and I spent an hour staring at my neck in this dress in the mirror to work up the courage to wear it, and you forgot.” Ron took a step closer to the bed, and her eyes grew wide as her hand reached out to stop him.

“Lav, really, I’m so sorry,” he pleaded, knowing that she had no reason to do so. He’d been a horrible shit lately, exhausted during the week and coming home to pass out, and at the shop on the weekend. It left no time for them.

“Is this real?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” He took another step closer to the bed, and she seemed to be okay with the movement. He sat at the edge of the bed, and she shifted, pulling her ankles towards her body. For several long, uncomfortable moments, she just looked at him, as if she couldn’t decide what to say.

“I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but wonder if you would have forgotten dinner with her.” Her fingers ran nervous lines down her leg.

“What? No,” Ron said, his tone making it clear how ridiculous this was.

“Really?” Lavender asked, though it didn’t seem like a question. “Maybe you would, anyway. I don’t know, but I wonder, and I think, maybe that’s enough of a reason.”

“A reason for what?” Ron asked, knowing exactly where she was going, but not able to accept it without the words.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” she told him. Her hand reached forward, her thumb running across his bottom lip. “I really … I thought we could, but … I just … her.”

“Hermione and I aren’t anything,” he said, but even as the words escaped his lips, his mind reminded him of her beneath him on her bed. He had wanted her, desperately, and he wasn’t really sure that all of that was gone. It didn’t mean that he didn’t care about Lavender, he did. He wasn’t lying to her, it was just that every once in a while, he wondered what could have been if Hermione hadn’t stopped them on Harry’s birthday.

“I know you aren’t. I don’t think you are, but if you could be, if the timing was right, and you hadn’t needed space, and she hadn’t gone back to Hogwarts? What then?” Lavender let her hand fall down his neck to his chest, and Ron moved closer, leaning into her. He kissed her hard, desperate to make her understand that he cared, that he wasn’t trying to ignore her. He’d never been good with words. He never knew what to say, and when he tried, he nearly always fumbled them. “Ron,” Lavender whispered against his lips, and he realized the salty taste was her tears. He pulled back to watch her wipe at her cheeks, looking away as she flushed with embarrassment. “I’m going to go home,” she told him. He tried to think, to figure out what on earth to do or say, but nothing at all occurred to him. She gathered her sweater and a small purse from his desk, gave him one last look, and slipped out the still open door. All the while he sat on the bed and watched her go.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Tuesday, December 22nd, 1998 

Hermione had put off packing too long. She was still placing the last few things in her trunk when Draco’s arms snaked around her waist, pulling her back against him as his lips brushed against her ear. “Shouldn’t you have done this already?” he asked. 

She let her body settle against him, enjoying the comfort she found there. It was scary, not knowing what exactly was going to happen next with them, but they both seemed sure that this was something more than an accidental fling. She had started to consider when and how it might be best to tell her friends that she was involved with him, but it wasn’t really an easy question to answer. Even if one ignored the obvious issues that would arise from him being Malfoy and them being people that hated him, she was supposed to be his tutor, a conveniently close Muggleborn who couldn’t say no to the Headmistress who had been tasked with helping him learn about Muggles.

She wasn’t inclined to believe that the Wizengamot could really have any reason to disapprove of them seeing one another as she had no control over the actual exam he would sit or the decision they would make about his reformation at the end of the year. Despite this, she worried that they would think her a dim girl being taken advantage of by the Death Eater trying to avoid jail. Whatever this was, these feelings, this inability to stay away from him, it was not a ploy. 

There were other reactions to be considered as well. Her parents, as well as his, would likely not be pleased. Her parents had heard his name, would know who he was if they thought hard enough. They didn’t know the details about his involvement with the Death Eaters, but they knew he had made her cry, and that would be enough to vilify him. She worried that her decision to see what happened between them would be just one more wedge between her and her parents. 

She wasn’t really sure what to expect from the Malfoy side of things. It was probably something they should discuss. His father was in Azkaban, so it was unlikely that he would have much to say on the matter. His mother, however, was out there, somewhere. Draco was not permitted contact with her. When he whispered this to her in the dark of her bedroom as she lay against him falling asleep, it had been clear that this lack of communication with her was more difficult than anything else he was currently dealing with. She had wished that there was something she could do to help him, but there really just wasn’t. It was part of the orders from the Wizengamot, something she had no control over, that he not receive or send any mail, so she had kissed him, let him know that she was there, that she felt his pain with him. 

“I almost just want to stay,” she told him honestly as his mouth slid down her neck. He was terribly distracting, but her desire to stay was not only so that they could spend the next couple of weeks in her bed, just the two of them, not worried about who might notice him sneaking in and out. She was mostly worried about Harry, scared to face the reality of what was happening to her best friend. She wasn’t sure what she was going to find, or if she would be able to help him at all. Ron and Ginny seemed so worried about him, and Hermione hoped that she might be able to reach him in a way that they could not. 

The only thing she was more concerned about was dealing with her parents. Even without telling them about Draco, she expected their reunion was going to be less than magical. The past couple years had been hard on her relationship with them. She had lied countless times, attempting to keep them in the dark for their safety and to avoid them worrying about hers. It was debatable whether they would have allowed her to continue her education had they realized just how dangerous the world they had allowed her to join could be. Now, however, it was so much a part of her that she struggled to connect with them in many different ways. It was as if she had been taught to speak a foreign language that they could never hope to even begin to comprehend. 

“I would be fine with you staying,” Draco told her, and she closed her eyes as she enjoyed the sensation of his hand sliding across her thigh and toward her knickers. 

“I should finish packing,” she insisted, but it was a lame protest, even to her own ears. 

“Your trunk is full,” he countered, and he was right. She had been planning to check the contents against her list one last time, but he was making that seem less necessary with each passing moment. 

She lifted her wand from the bed, flicked it once, shutting the trunk, and then again, moving in down to the floor at the end of the bed. Draco spun her around, leaning forward to suck and nip at her collarbone as his fingers pulled up at fabric. “I can’t believe I’m going to bloody miss Hermione Granger,” he teased when he pulled back to remove the article over her head. 

“Same,” she told him, marveling in the difference a year had made her in her life. This time last year, she had been on the run, living in a tent with Harry, distraught over Ron leaving, wondering if they would even be alive in a year. Now she was here with Draco, and something about him made her hurt so much less. He understood things she couldn’t put into words, and he had become so different, a version of himself that she had never anticipated being possible, but to be fair, she had never really known him before. 

She pulled up on his t-shirt, watching his skin be revealed to her until she slid it over his head. They were both enjoying mapping one another’s bodies, memorizing the scars and indentations that made them unique, that showed them how far they had truly come. She wanted to know the story of each mark upon his flesh, but she knew it was likely going to be a slow and painful process for them both. 

He shuffled forward, pushing her back until she fell onto her bed. Her hair splayed around her head wildly, and her breasts bounced as she fell. She was sure she looked ridiculous, but Draco just smiled down predatorily. “This is my favorite place to be,” he told her as he crawled up over her body. 

She was sure that it was true, as she shared the feeling. It would lesson surely, this feeling of excitement when they were together, but for now, everything was new and felt so right. Outside of this room and his, things were, in a word, complicated. In here, she relished things like how he looked at her, and the way he seemed to be, little by little, becoming more of himself again. He teased her, used sarcasm more often, and was not afraid to tell her exactly what he wanted to do to her when they were here in this room. It wasn’t necessarily easy falling for him, and it was probably going to get harder if they continued to see each other, but the time she spent with him in the classroom or here in their dorm was easily the thing she most enjoyed at the moment. 

He relieved her quickly of her trousers, and she delighted in watching his expression as he determined what to do next. She was eager to feel him tonight, but she suspected he may have ideas of his own. “Hermione,” he said, one hand tracing a line down between her breasts until his fingers were stroking her over the silky material of her knickers. “You are so beautiful.” 

She flushed, still not used to compliments like this. She was sure that she wasn't beautiful by traditional standards, but when he said things like this, she was starting to believe that he truly meant them. She could understand also, that affection did funny things to you. He was too thin still, she knew this. His eyes were still dark and haunted. She had learned over the last couple months that he hated to feel dirty in the slightest, and he had confessed to her that it was because of Azkaban. Despite all of these things others would see as imperfections, she found him impossible to resist, especially when he was like this. 

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded softly, his voice barely reaching her ears. He leaned down to kiss the inside of her thigh gently, and she let out a sigh of contentment. 

“I want to stay,” she said, regretting her other responsibilities in that moment. 

“What are you going to do without me?” he asked, kissing her other thigh. 

“I haven’t thought about it,” she replied honestly. 

“Are you going to touch yourself?” Draco’s fingers moved up her slit over her knickers again. She was losing control of her hips as her need built. They shifted of their own accord, dancing for him. 

She was sure that she would. She was sure that her body had grown used to him giving her the most blissful releases. She was sure that she was going to miss these moments as she laid in bed alone, her hand moving down her body. “Yes,” she whispered, not even bothering to attempt the lie. 

“What are you going to think about when your fingers slip below your knickers?” he asked. As he spoke, his own fingers moved the fabric aside. She whimpered as he felt the first touch of his skin against her lips, and then they were traveling the same line, up and down. 

“You,” she told him, hoarsely. She would think of this, of him teasing her. She would think of him buried inside of her, the way his eyes nearly glowed as he came. She would think of his tongue on her skin, swirling down her belly to lick her clit. She was already addicted to his touch. 

“What about me?” He bit at her thigh now and she yelped in surprise, even though it didn’t hurt. It was a sensation she hadn’t been expecting. 

“Everything, Draco, dammit.” She was losing all semblance of patience. 

“I just don’t want you to forget me,” he said, playing innocent. “What do you want me to do to you now?” he asked. “What memories do you want to take with you to keep you company? 

“Anything.” Her fingers ran through his hair as she was tempted to pull his face to a more appealing location. 

He chuckled as he moved there of his accord. When she felt his teeth against her skin, she whispered his name. He pulled on the fabric, refusing to use his fingers as she wiggled, attempting to help him remove the offending garment faster. 

“Would you like me to taste you here?” he asked, and she felt her face heat up. He seemed intent on making her speak her wishes about everything tonight, something she still wasn’t very good at. 

Hermione tried to ignore the question, but he remained still, waiting for her reply. “Yes,” she whispered, and he smirked, but moved his tongue closer, doing exactly what he had suggested. As she closed her eyes and clenched sheets in fists, Hermione wondered just how miserable she was going to be without him. She had survived nineteen years without regular sex, or any sex at all, so surely she could last a few weeks, but right now, with his hands pulling her hips closer to him and his tongue swirling a delicious message meant just for her, she wasn’t entirely sure that she was going to last the break. 

By the time he was moving back up her body, leaving a trail of kisses on her trembling skin, she was ready to burst, her mind focused entirely on the sensations of each touch, no matter how brief. Somehow, he had removed his trousers by the time his lips reached hers, and she let out a sound of utter need as his cock pressed against her. 

He laughed, clearly enjoying what he was doing to her, and she frowned up at him. “You’re a prat,” she muttered against his lips. 

“You love me,” he replied. 

It took her a few seconds to fully comprehend what he had said. By then, he had pulled back, his eyes on hers, his naked body still, waiting to fill her. He looked alarmed, as if the words had just fallen out of his mouth. 

“I … uh …” She struggled to speak, her thoughts floating back from wherever they had fled to make room for her utter desire to take over. 

“No, I, not …” Draco responded, so quickly transforming from the confident man who had been so clearly in control moments previously. 

“It’s okay,” she said. “I know you didn’t mean it like that.” She tried not to sound disappointed, like a lovesick girl whose heart had just been broken, but it was harder than it should have been to fake. 

“Hermione,” he said her name like an apology, and she hated it. What he said had seemed so innocent, but that word between them in this situation felt like a bomb. 

“Draco, really, it’s okay.” 

“No, I should have thought.” He leaned in, kissing her gently. “I think … I …” 

“Please don’t say anything you don’t mean,” she told him. “I don’t want to rush this.” She moved a hand into his hair and kissed him again in that same gentle way. Her chest ached. 

“I won’t,” he promised. “But, I … I didn’t mean it that way, but I think about you and …” He breathed deeply, and she waited, not wanting to force it this time. She was on edge, terrified for what he might say. He buried his face in her hair, his lips touching her ear. Hermione stared past him at the ceiling, her mind frozen. “I feel that way.” 

“What way?” she asked, her throat so dry she was sure she sounded awful, but she needed to be sure, to know for a fact that he was telling her what she thought he was telling her. It may be unfair to request the actual words of him, but she was tired of dancing around this and of keeping what she had known for weeks hidden away from him. She was in love with him. Hermione Granger, Muggleborn, best friend of Harry Potter, had fallen in love with Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and the last person anyone would expect to be involved with her. 

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered, so soft she barely heard it, and then he pushed inside of her, finally filling her as she gripped his back with one hand, the other still in his hair. She used her hand to guide his face back up. She wanted to see him, particularly his grey eyes. They were stormy with some emotion she couldn’t quite identify, perhaps it was fear or hesitation. 

“Draco.” She struggled with the words, feeling overwhelmed by the emotion of this moment. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced in her life. The closeness of him inside her, her eyes holding his gaze as she relished the power of his words was something she was not sure would ever be matched again. “I love you, too.” She wished there was some other way to convey to him what she felt, what she had come to realize as their friendship had developed into something entirely unforeseen. 

“This isn’t how I would’ve told you,” he said before he was kissing her again. 

She rocked her hips up to meet his, gripping him tightly as they moved together. They were both quiet as their bodies developed a rhythm, lost in the significance of what was happening. Hermione was just trying to keep her mind on this moment, and not let it be ruined by jumping twenty steps ahead to who would need to be told now and how this was going to change their lives. She wouldn’t be in love in secret, hiding it away from the world as if they were dirty for falling for someone inconvenient to the rest of the world. Instead, she focused on the timing of his breathing, on the way his hands held her firmly, on the way she could just feel his heartbeat against her breasts. She was in love with him, and she deserved this moment to just be about them. 

When he was close, she felt him pull back slightly, increasing the space between them, and then he was smirking again. “Show me how you’re going to do it when I’m not around,” he told her, and she felt her face heat again, but her hand moved from him to slide into the space he had created. She found her clit as he pushed back inside of her, and she moaned at the combined sensations. “You’re so damn beautiful,” he said again, and she bit her lip as her eyes fluttered shut. Her body was tensing as she moved closer and closer to satisfaction. “Come for me, Hermione,” he directed, and hearing those words from him was so fucking hot and unexpected that she obliged, struggling to keep her cries from reaching an embarrassing level. She was just coming down, her mind fuzzy with the utter bliss of shattering, when he began to pump faster, speeding up with each thrust. She tried to help, to meet his thrusts, but she was exhausted, and did little to help. Within a minute, he was spilling inside of her, moaning her name into her ear. 

XXX

Thirty minutes later, Hermione lay beside him, her hair still slightly damp from the shower. She was wearing his shirt and a pair of her knickers, and he was in his pants. Her right leg draped over his left, and her thumb was rubbing against his chest gently. She was hating tomorrow already. Leaving was going to be a hundred times harder now. 

“Maybe I can write someone else, and they can give you the letters,” she told him. 

“Who would you trust to give them to me?” He laughed. “Besides, it’s not worth possibly getting caught.” 

“It’s stupid anyway. What are you going to do? Plan a Ministry coup by owl post?” She rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see her. 

Draco leaned down, kissing her head. “That was actually my intention,” he joked. “Then I met this girl, and she ruined all my plans.” 

“Girls are trouble. You should probably stay away,” she warned. 

“Too late.” His hand moved to meet hers, and she let him intertwine their fingers. 

“Tell me more about your parents,” she said then. It was random she knew, but she was curious about so many things now, wanting to know every detail of his life. 

 

Draco grew noticeably tense below her, but he didn’t refuse. “My dad … I don’t really know what else to tell you.” 

Hermione shifted so that she could look up at him. “What will he think about this?” she asked. 

“He’s not going to be okay with this,” he told her. The frown that crossed his face made her lean forward to kiss his chest. “He’s so complicated. I don’t know if I’ve ever really understood him, but this, you and me, is unacceptable. My job is to carry on the name with a Pureblood wife.” 

“Has he really told you that?” she asked, still a little shocked at how barbaric the whole thing was even though she had suspected as much. 

“He doesn’t have to. It’s just understood that that is what I will do.” Draco shrugged. “with the way I was raised, I wouldn't have given anyone outside of the old families a second thought. My mother is friends with a few women who had already started speaking to her about a union.” 

“Like an arranged marriage?” Hermione asked, alarmed. 

“Sort of, but not really. I would still have the final say on who I marry, but it would be perfectly normal for my parents to make a strong suggestion on who they thought I would be most compatible with,” Draco explained. “I suppose none of that really matters now.” 

“Won’t your mother expect you to still follow through?”

“I honestly don’t know. The last two years have been really hard on her.” It was easy to see the pain he carried about his mother. His voice changed from the matter of fact delivery he had been using to something closer to how he sounded when he talked about how he felt about Hermione. 

“She saved Harry,” Hermione said. She had examined this decision of Narcissa Malfoy hundreds of times, hoping to understand it, to find some clue about who this woman was. 

“Yes, she did,” Draco agreed. “And, he helped to keep her out of prison and me. I am the most important thing in my mother’s life. I hate to think it would come to this, but if I was forced to give her an ultimatum, I am fairly sure that she would accept you instead of losing me.” 

“Do you … I mean …” She stopped, unsure of how to ask him what they should do next. 

“I have no idea what we do from here,” he admitted, understanding her hesitation. 

“I think I might try to feel out Harry while I’m at Grimmauld. See how he might take it.” Hermione bit her lip as she spoke, unsure how Draco would react to her considering taking this relationship outside of the two of them. 

“I can’t believe he’s living there, and Weasley.” Draco added the last bit with emphasis, and Hermione rolled her eyes again, this time in plain sight. 

“Ron is with Lavender,” she said simply. 

“Yeah, right,” Draco said sarcastically. 

“I don’t understand why you think something is going on,” Hermione told him, starting to get annoyed. 

“I don’t think anything is going on. I just know you aren’t the kind of girl a bloke just stops wanting.” Draco shifted, pulling her beneath him to kiss her soundly. “And, you’re mine.” 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Hermione told him, but she was smiling. 

“I’m not stupid enough to ever think you would.” He was pushing up the edge of his t-shirt to feel her stomach, and she couldn’t even muster up annoyance that she had already showered and was going to be a mess again.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Wednesday, December 23rd, 1998

Harry picked her and Ginny up at the Platform the next day after work. Hermione nearly started crying right there when he hugged her. She missed him. She missed him so much, more than she had allowed herself to really feel until his arms were tight around her holding her against him. 

When they arrived back at the house, she had expected Ron to be there. She missed him too, but Harry just shook his head and said he was at the shop working late. Hermione felt like a pretty shit friend at that point because she hadn't even realized that Ron was helping George out until Harry told her. 

Harry and Ginny chatted with her for a few minutes, but she quickly excused herself to unpack. She knew they wanted to be alone. How could they not? She was reminded again at how little she had been focusing on her friendships by the fact that Harry and Ginny had been spending weeks apart at a time, doing over and over what she and Draco were so hesitant to do even once. The end of break seemed so far away as she watched Harry rub the back of Ginny’s hand as they talked. 

She used her wand to get her truck up to her room and clicked the door shut behind her. After months in her room at Hogwarts, this old room at Grimmauld seemed a bit foreign and lonely to her. She unpacked quickly, using magic to make the job less tedious, and then she curled up under her blankets with a book. 

She had been reading for nearly an hour when he knocked. “Hermione?” 

“Come in,” she called to him. 

Ron pushed the door open slowly as Hermione sat up. “Hey,” he said. 

“Hey,” she told him, and then she patted a space on the bed. 

Ron laughed and crossed the room to sit with her. He put his back up against the wall, and his feet dangled off the other edge. “How’s it going?” 

“Good. Just giving Harry and Ginny space,” she explained. 

“I’m pretty sure they are in Harry’s room,” he told her, frowning. 

“Sorry it’s weird,” she laughed at him, and he shook his head. 

“All the girls in the world, and he falls for my sister,” he said, but he smiled as well. 

“She’s pretty great though,” Hermione told him. 

“Yeah, she is,” he agreed. “He’s not bad either, for a bloke.” 

“No, he’s a good one. I heard you have a new job?” Hermione asked, pointing out that they hadn’t talked about it before. 

“Not really, just helping George a bit.” He rubbed at his chin as he spoke, and Hermione noticed he needed to shave. 

“A bit? I heard you were going to the shop every day after training and on the weekends. When do you have time to see Lavender?” She wasn't sure of this was a safe question between them, but she wanted to be supportive, to move back to being real friends. 

“She, uh, broke up with me.” Ron shrugged, but Hermione could tell it hurt. 

“What? Why?” she asked, startled. She wished Harry had thought to mention it to her. 

“I was getting distracted and working too much with George, and she thought if it was you, I would have made the time.” Ron didn't meet her eye. 

She wasn't sure what to say. “Oh.” 

“I think it’s probably good. I need to figure out my own stuff first.” He shrugged again. 

Hermione struggled with what to say or do. She wanted to reach out and touch his hand, but she wasn't sure if that would be taken the wrong way. “I’m sorry, Ron.” 

“It is what it is.” He shrugged again. “I’m just glad your back. Harry and I … we missed you. I can’t keep going on like this.” 

“I’m seeing someone.” The words slipped out, quick and awkward, before she realized what she was really saying. 

Luckily, Ron just laughed. He laughed hard, shaking his head as his face turned red. He leaned forward, pulling her in to hug him. “Oh, Hermione.” She hugged him back, feeling a bit embarrassed by her outburst. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I’ll make breakfast. K?” 

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” Ron moved from the bed, still chuckling as he walked across her room. It was odd, not at all what she had been expecting, but maybe, just possibly, they could all move back toward what they had once been. She missed them, the way that they had been three parts of one whole. The past several months without them had been like living without part of herself. 

XXX

Wednesday, December 23rd, 1998

Hermione was still reading, but now in her pajamas, her hair pulled up out of her face, when another knock came at her door. “Hermione?” 

“Come in, Harry,” she told him, smiling at the parallel. They were so unique her boys, but so alike as well. He moved inside, shutting the door behind him before he moved over to her bed and climb up beside her. She closed her book and turned on her side to face him. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” he told her. 

“What’s going on?” she asked. 

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you that I’m glad you came.” He looked down at her book, and she could tell that something was off. She wasn’t sure if it was something in particular or if this was just the general demeanor that he seemed to have about life now. 

“Me too,” she said, trying to decide if she should share the idea that had been on her mind the past few days. 

“You see Ron yet?” Harry asked. 

“He came in when he got home. He said he and Lavender broke up.” Hermione watched Harry turn on his back and stare up at the ceiling. 

“Yeah. Idiot.” Harry sighed, and she decided not to push him about forgetting to share the news with her before she saw Ron. 

“He seems to have realized he needs to be alone,” Hermione told him. 

“I suppose so.” 

They fell into a long silence. Hermione joined him on her back, looking up at the faded design on the ceiling. “Harry?” she asked finally. 

“Yeah?” 

“I was hoping you could take me to see Narcissa Malfoy.” 

Harry moved again, pushing up from the bed to gaze down at her. “What?” 

Hermione followed him, sitting up before pulling her knees to her chin. “She isn’t allowed to send any mail, and he can’t either. I thought … maybe … she might want to hear how he’s doing. Maybe send him a note or something.” 

“You want to go see her?” he asked, clearly uncertain about the entire situation. “Narcissa Malfoy?” 

“Yeah.” Hermione nodded once. 

“Are you too friends now?” Harry asked. 

“He’s changed, honestly,” Hermione told him. 

Harry ran a hand through his messy locks. “I guess … that’s good. I'm glad you’re getting along.”

“Me too. I was really worried, but he wants to pass this test, and he seems open to what I’m trying to teach him.” Hermione wanted to ease him into the idea of Draco, and he luckily seemed open to this. 

“She's been living in one of their smaller homes,” Harry explained. “I'll owl her and see if I can set something up.” 

“Thanks, Harry. How are you holding up?” Hermione asked. 

“Fine.” 

“Right, but for real?” Hermione watched Harry shake his head and look away from her as he didn't answer. She reached forward to grab his hand. “Hey. It’s me.” 

“It's hard,” he told her, his voice rough. 

“What is?” She didn't want to push too hard, but she don't have much time here to figure out what was wrong if she was going to try to help him. He needed to open up. 

Harry laughed, but it was the empty, humorless laugh of a broken soul. “Everything. Work. Ginny. Getting up in the morning.” 

It crushed her heart. The words floating from his lips to her ears stung her very core. He was her best friend, her brother, and he was hurting so horribly bad. She hated it. “Harry, you have to let people in. You have to tell them when you feel like this.” 

“I’m telling you,” he told her. “Hermione,” he hesitated, “it doesn't feel like it's over.” 

“It is over.” She gripped his hand more tightly. “He’s gone. He’s never coming back.” She felt like sobbing, but she held back the majority of her emotion, letting him feel her earnest need for him to know the truth through her tight grip on him. “Ron says you're working overtime on old cases. Why are you putting yourself through that?” 

“It helps,” he said simply. 

“Does it really?” she asked, and then she gave voice to the words that had haunted her for months. “Does being an Auror help?” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, as if he had never considered this. 

“I mean, it seems like an odd career choice ... given everything.” She was convinced it was killing him, holding him down in this dark place she didn't want him in. He deserved beauty and light in his life, and being an Auror was not going to give him any sort of peace. 

“This is what I always wanted to do,” he explained, but the explanation fell flat. 

“I know, I do, but maybe it isn't right anymore. Maybe you need something a little less like the job you’ve been doing the last seven years.” A little less like the job he never should have been given. She stroked his hand with her thumb while he stared back, dumbstruck. 

“I don't even know what I would do if I wasn't an Auror.”

“You could do anything,” she insisted. “Play Quidditch. Travel the world. Renovate this place or build that new house you were talking about this summer.” 

“Everyone expects me to be an Auror,” he said, 

She felt a rush of rage fill her. He owed them nothing. Nothing, and yet here he sat, falling apart in this room, insisting that they needed him, expected things of him. “Everyone expects me to get some great Ministry job. Fuck them.” 

“Hermione!” Harry’s face morphed into something between shock and amusement. 

“No, really, we've given them enough. It's time we do what we want. I want you and Ron back, and I want you doing something that isn't killing you.” 

“It isn't killing me,” he said. Any meaning the words may have had was lost by the giant dark circles under his eyes. 

“It is,” she said softly. “Ginny and Ron are both worried about you, too.”

“They put you up to this?” he asked. It wasn't angry or accusatory, just curious. 

“Of course, they did. They know I can get through to you … sometimes.” She laughed, remembering times when she wasn't able to get through to him at all. 

Harry didn't laugh. He held her gaze, his eyes boring into hers, suddenly serious. “You remember when we were alone, just the two of us, and it was like ... we could stay there forever and pretend like the world wasn't out here falling apart?” 

“Yeah,” she said, startled at the sudden shift in their conversation. “I remember.” She had been devastated by losing Ron, torn apart with the pain, with the weight of all of of it, but she would have had to be dead not to feel the connection she and Harry shared then. 

“Sometimes … sometimes I wish we had, and I feel like the worst person. It’s not … not that I don't love Ginny and everyone, but … it would have been easy.” 

“You aren't the worst. Not even close,” Hermione promised him. “But, if you feel like this, you've got to make a change.” 

“Yeah. Probably.” Harry rubbed at his face. “I always wanted to be an Auror,” he whispered, and she wasn't sure he was talking to her anymore. 

XXX

Wednesday, December 23, 1998

Hermione had only left that morning, but it felt longer somehow. He missed her. It was crazy, but he was wallowing in missing her. How had they allowed themselves to get here, to this messy and murky location of having fallen too far to go back? He was sure that it wouldn’t end well, that it couldn’t possibly be any good for either of them, but when she was next to him, it was so easy to pretend that all of that would never really matter. 

Theo had gotten them some sort of terrible liquid he was sure he shouldn't be drinking, but he had been good - so fucking good - for months, and tonight he was sleeping alone, dreadfully alone. If he had to struggle against the nightmares without her warmth beside him, he may as well do it shitfaced. Draco poured the vile liquid past his lips, grimacing at the taste. He would stop caring what it tasted like soon enough. He would stop caring that he wasn’t going to taste her lips, her skin, her body open to him. 

Fuck. 

“What is wrong with you?” Theo asked, his eyes narrowed. 

“Nothing,” Draco responded. It came out harsh, and he was sure that it was entirely unconvincing. Fucking Granger. Leaving him. But, he had told her to go, told her that she should go see her parents, so it wasn’t really her fault. 

“Yes. Nothing.” Theo scoffed, and took a drag of his cigarette. 

“Just the normal shit.” Draco hoped that he would drop it, but Theo shook his head, grinning. 

“You’re extra miserable to be around tonight, Draco. What’s going on?” 

Draco scowled, taking another drink. “What is this shit?” he asked with disdain. 

“No clue.” Theo shrugged “But, it gets the job done.” 

“Clearly,” Draco agreed. 

“Is it something with Granger?” Theo asked. “Did something happen again?” 

“No. Why do you think it always has to do with Granger?” 

“Because it always does lately.” 

“She’s just my tutor,” Draco insisted. 

“Yeah, okay. You tell me you’re not fucking her, and I’ll tell you I’m not glad my Dad’s in Azkaban this Christmas, and we’ll both be fucking liars.” Theo didn’t meet his eye. He just inhaled on his cigarette again. 

Draco stared, his jaw failing to respond to his orders to close his damn mouth. “I’m not,” he sputtered finally. 

“Oh, so you’re just cuddling with her every night? Sitting in the chair while she sleeps? How noble of you. How very un-Malfoy.” 

“You - What do you want?” Draco asked, knowing he had lost, sure he was about to be blackmailed. 

“Ouch. I don’t want anything, Draco. I just want you to stop lying to me,” Theo told him. 

“I’m not lying,” Draco said automatically. 

“You just said you weren’t fucking her,” Theo told him, gesturing as if he could grab the words from the air. 

“Stop saying it like that,” Draco demanded. 

“Oh, Merlin’s sagging tit.” Theo stared, eyes wide. “You like her, Granger?! She’s off limits, mate.” 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” 

“It means your a fucking parole, and she’s a hero. It isn’t going to work. You're better off ending it now.” 

Draco pulled the rest of the liquid from his cup and shook his head, staring away from Theo hard. 

“Fuck, Draco.” Theo’s voice was low, as if he was suddenly understanding something profound. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah,” Draco agreed. “I know.” 

“You … Does she know how bad this will be?” Theo asked. 

“Of course, she knows,” Draco snapped, thinking of her brow furrowed as she worried over a problem while tutoring him. If only their problem were so easily solved as homework. 

“Fuck,” Theo said again, pity thick on his tongue.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Friday, December 25th, 1998

“You're going to be okay,” Harry whispered, his mouth dropping a kiss just behind her ear. 

“I don't know. I don't want to go,” Ginny told him. 

“You have to go, Gin. It's your whole family, waiting for you. They love you.” His arms wrapped around her from behind as they both gazed into the mirror before them. 

“I know,” she mumbled, wishing he was wrong, but she would feel awful if she skipped Christmas entirely. She just didn't want to see her mother, to have to face her after so many months of silence, to have to feel all the things her mother made her feel, the guilt that haunted her. 

“You going to tell them?” he asked. 

She shrugged. It didn't seem worth telling anyone yet. She had told Harry and Hermione because they were there at the table when she opened the letter. Ron had been at the shop, and he still didn't know. 

She could still hardly believe it was real. Gwenog Jones wanted her to come for a trial during her break for a spot she was going to have opening up. She had been vague in her letter, but Ginny hadn't cared. She would play any position for that team without a second thought. It was some sort of insane dream, and she had been waiting to wake up from it ever since. “I think I'll wait,” she said finally, making up her mind, not wanting to deal with whatever would come of this news on top of seeing her mother. 

Harry nodded, pulling back. “Time to go,” he said, and she couldn't find any reason to delay the inevitable any longer. 

When they arrived, climbing from the Floo, the house was already full of loud family members and the wails of a screaming baby girl in Bill’s arms. He was bouncing her as he spoke to Ron and George. 

She could hear her mother in the kitchen, and Harry gripped her hand, trying his best to offer support. Ginny pulled him towards the baby, hoping to avoid the inevitable awkward moment when her mother laid eyes on her. 

Bill didn't miss a beat as they joined the conversation. He gave Ginny a half hug, and somehow, at the end of it, she was holding her niece. The girl whimpered as Ginny let go of Harry’s hand to pat her gently as she bounced. She felt a bit terrified of the girl to be honest. They were a big family, sure, but she was the baby. There had been no younger sibling for her to help with. 

She looked over at Harry, sure he would be able to see the terror in her eyes, and he was just smiling at her in a way she wasn't entirely comfortable with. 

“She does that fussing all the time,” Bill told them as he laughed at Harry. “Don't be getting any ideas.” 

“I'm not …” Harry insisted. 

“Engaged within the year,” George cut in, “calling it now.” 

“We’re not,” Harry told them, stammering over his words. 

“You are,” Ron said, and for once, he didn't seem to be affected by the idea. Ginny looked at Harry again, trying to figure out what he was thinking. She loved him, so much, but … could she commit to forever? To what her parents had? 

Her mind quickly pulled the memory of her birthday to the surface and a dozen similar days when she had felt so disconnected from him. 

Not yet. She couldn't promise forever when he was like this, as much as it hurt to admit, even just to herself, he needed to heal, to find his center again before they could be anything more than what they were now. She needed things from him that he seemed incapable of at the moment. She could be patient, but she couldn't commit to always without something changing. 

“Leave him alone,” she snapped at her brothers. 

“Don't torture Harry.” Her father's hand fell onto her shoulder as he spoke behind her. “It's Christmas. Everyone's here, George, you ready?” 

“Is Hermione coming,” George asked, looking to Harry and Ginny. 

“She’s still with her parents,” Harry told him. “She didn't say if she would be over.” 

“Well,” George looked at Arthur and shrugged, “guess we’ll fill her in later.” 

“What's going on?” Ron asked. 

“Nothing Ronnikins. Gather the family, Dad.” 

“On it,” Arthur slipped back into the kitchen and slowly, Weasley’s filtered in from every direction, creating Harry and Ginny before moving to take a seat or lean against a wall. 

Her mother was one of the last, rubbing her hands on her apron as she came right up to Ginny. “Happy Christmas,” she said and hugged her. Ginny hugged her back, a bit taken aback by this nonchalant greeting, as if nothing had transpired between them at all. “Harry, Happy Christmas,” she said again, pulling him in. Harry looked at her over her mother's shoulder as he hugged her back. Ginny just shrugged, willing to let the tension dissipate for the day if her mother was. 

“Come on, now,” George shouted. “I haven't got all day.” They separated. Harry took Ginny’s hand again, and they moved towards one of the walls, giving George the stage for whatever he was up to. 

“Right,” he began, clasping his hands together. “I've been talking to Dad about some things with the shop, and I’ve had to accept it's just too much work for me to handle.” Ginny’s heart dropped, thumping painfully in her chest. He couldn't close the store, not Fred’s store. Her eyes burned as tears threatened to spill. 

“We can all pitch in,” Bill offered. “I know Ron's been up there. I can do a day a week or so.” Fleur didn't refute this, but she did look up at her husband in concern. He was already so busy. There was no way he had time for that. 

“I'll help, too,” Percy offered, and everyone stared, a bit taken aback. “We can't lose it. We can't.” 

“I'm not closing,” George told them. “I'm taking on a partner, giving him Fred’s share of the business.” 

Ginny glanced at Ron, and he looked devastated. He wasn't the only one. 

“What?” Ron asked, clearly moving quickly from devastation to anger. “Who?” 

“Well, I thought,” George said, and he fished in his pocket, reaching for something. He pulled out a small key, and held it out towards Ron. “I thought you might want to come on full time. You'd have to give up trying to be a hero, so It’s up to you. Take some time if you need it.” 

Ron just stared, dumbfounded, at George as everyone else stared at him. “I already have a key,” Ron said finally, which Ginny supposed was him accepting. 

“Yeah, well,” George moved, closing the space between them. “This was his, so, well, I, just…” 

Ron moved quickly. It almost looked like he was going to tackle George, but then his arms were around his brother’s body, holding him as if George might also disappear from their lives forever if he didn't hold him tight enough, and Ginny was sobbing as she watched the two grown men try not to fall to pieces in front of everyone. 

“You knew about this?” her mother asked, glaring at her father as she wiped at her face. He only shrugged, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. 

XXX

Friday, December 25th, 1998

Hermione’s parents were really lovely people. She loved them, obviously. She wouldn't have erased their memories and sent then away to Australia if she didn't, but it was proving just as difficult to be around them as she had expected. Her mother was nice, smiling, hugging her too long, and attempting, rather poorly, to act as if nothing had happened. Her father was aloof, standoffish, and utterly, obviously not at all over it. She tried to act like herself, like the daughter they would remember, but she couldn't even remember who that girl was anymore, or how she would react to Christmas with her parents. They were three people who ought to belong together, fit into a perfect puzzle, but the pieces had been mangled, and it no longer seemed that they made a whole picture. 

She was miserable the entire morning with them, but only the morning because she decided she couldn't bear to stay the entire day. Harry, Ron, and Ginny had begged her to come to the Burrow, and so she used it as an excuse to kiss them goodbye after presents and lunch. Her parents seemed just as relieved as her to end the entire affair. Even though it was horrible, she was still, in one way, glad that she had come. It was good to see them, to witness with her own eyes that they were indeed back in their own lives, settling in more now that the initial shock of their realization of what had happened was waning. They chatted about work and their friends and in small moments, she saw the people they used to be, the people she desperately hoped they would be again, but she didn't belong here. 

She belonged in the other world, the one with spells and magic and her friends who had become her family when her family was gone and then fallen apart after they defeated Voldemort. This visit had solidified that fact for her. There was never going to be a place for her in her parent’s world again, and as she left them, she accepted that. She hoped that time would heal the invisible rift between them all, but she had no false notions of ever trying to make them understand why she needed to live the way she did.

She arrived at the Burrow just after lunch had finished up. Ron, Harry, and Ginny were sitting with George, and she moved over to then, falling to the floor beside Ginny. 

When Harry told her that Ron was quitting Auror training, she felt a sudden, unexpected surge of relief. “Good,” she replied. 

Ron showed her the key then, telling her reverently that it used to belong to Fred, and she took it from him, looking over the seemingly ordinary object. 

“I'm so happy for you,” she told him, “both of you,” she added to George. “I think he would be really proud of you both for what you're doing with the shop.” 

“I miss him,” Ron said, his voice cracking. “I just .. I really fucking miss him.” He wiped at his face as he accepted the key back, and Hermione patted his knee. 

After that, George found a bottle of Firewhiskey, and they drank until they could bare to tell stories about Fred until their sides ached from laughter. 

XXX

Wednesday, December 31st, 1998

What Harry had called one of the Malfoy’s smaller homes turned out to be a house larger than the one Hermione grew up in. She couldn't honestly say that she was surprised by this, but it did amuse her. If nothing else came from this trip, at least she could tell Draco where his mother was staying. She hoped that would give him some comfort. She wrung her hands as Harry led her up the stone path. She had been okay until they were actually here, looking the house in the eyes. Narcissa Malfoy had never given her a reason to expect kindness. 

When they reached the door, Harry gave her a hesitant look and then knocked for them. The door swing open nearly immediately to reveal the Malfoy Matron. She looked in slightly better condition than she had at the trial, but not much. Her white blonde hair was piled atop her head. Lines of worry, unconcealed by her makeup ran across her forehead. Her eyes seemed dull, and her body was bare of any ornamentation aside from her wedding ring. The dress she wore was simple, but nicer than what Hermione had last seen her in. 

“Mr. Potter,” she said, and her eyes moved quickly, taking account of Hermione with decisive flicks up and down her body. “Ms. Granger. I've made tea.” 

They followed her into the house, and Hermione glanced around, trying not to look like she was spying as she did just that. She didn't spot a single item out of place or anything that she would guess had not been custom made for the space. Narcissa must be doing all right to actually at least. 

“I was glad to get your letter,” Narcissa told Harry as they walked through another set of doors to a covered patio. A small table for four was already set for the three of them. 

“It was Hermione, really,” Harry told her. “She wanted to see you.”

“Yes, that is what you said.” Narcissa’s small smile didn't seem to reach her eyes, and Hermione’s racing heart seemed to clench in apprehension as she took her seat beside Harry. Narcissa sat across from her and waved her hand to encourage the tea set to begin to serve them. 

“I'm not sure what you know about Draco’s situation at school, Mrs. Malfoy,” she began. 

As she paused for breath, the other woman spoke again. “The Headmistress wrote to inform me you had agreed to tutor my son.” 

“Yes, I did.” Hermione reached for her newly filled cup, needing something to occupy her hands as she sat there, but unable to actually compel herself to lift it to her lips to drink. 

“And?” Narcissa asked. It was clear that she did not like Hermione but was willing to put up with her, host her at tea to learn something, anything about her son. 

“He is doing very well. We are moving through the material swiftly, and he is very dedicated to passing his exams,” Hermione told her. 

“How much time do you spend with my son?” 

Hermione was a little surprised by the question. It seemed so strange and out of nowhere. “I … uhm …” Hermione struggled with the answer for a moment. She spent every possible moment with him, spent her nights in his arms, but she couldn't really tell his mother, or Harry, that. “We have daily tutoring for at least an hour. Some days we have practical lessons and they take longer, or we will study other course work.” She decided this was a safe answer, and not a lie exactly. 

Narcissa stared, her eyes burning Hermione with their intense gaze, considering and measuring her for something. They flickered to Harry for a moment and then back to her. “How is he?” she asked, and the question seemed to cost her something. 

“Better,” Hermione answered quickly. “He was … we all were … but he's getting better.” 

“Good. Thank you.” Even this seemed painful for the other woman. 

“He misses you, I think.” She knew this, but admitting that he had relayed this information would reveal a level of intimacy she wasn't sure she should share. “And, well, I just really wanted to be able to tell him that you know he's doing okay. It doesn’t seem right that he can’t even write.” 

Narcissa stared again, and Hermione wished desperately that she could see into the other woman’s mind. “Excuse me,” Narcissa told them as she rose quickly from her chair. “I will be right back.” 

They watched her disappear inside the door, and Harry caught Hermione’s eye even though she tried to avoid his gaze. She was sure her every feeling and thought for Draco was displayed there on her face. Being this close to Narcissa was more difficult than she had been able to predict. It was clear that though her experiences and time may have humbled her to permitting Hermione into her home, it was not an easy task. 

“You okay?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied, forcing a smile as her nails dug into her palms. 

“We can go,” he said, his voice low. 

“No. I’m fine.” But, she wasn’t. She had realized that this, tea across the table from this cold woman, or worse, could quite possibly be her future, depending how well Narcissa took the news about her and Draco. She felt her heart race in her chest as her mind swirled around how in the world they could possibly convince this woman that they loved each other and were going to be together. Draco had said that she would com around because she loved him, but what exactly did that mean? Would Narcissa still see her as less than for the rest of her life? 

Was she going to be with him for the rest of her life? 

She shut her eyes, remembering the way she felt when she was with him, when he kissed her, or smiled at her, or admitted that something Muggles did was interesting or noble. She didn’t want to imagine her life without him, so maybe that meant the rest of her life? She didn’t want to think that it would depend on the reactions of the people they loved, but could it play a role? Could she truly sit through a meal like this one over and over again? 

Hermione heard Narcissa walk back out into the garden and opened her eyes, attempting to calm her nerves despite the mini panic attack occurring inside of her mind. 

As she walked around the table, Narcissa placed a book in front of Hermione. For a moment, Hermione was confused, struck by the title before her. She looked at Harry and found his mouth hanging open as he stared. 

“I know it seems trivial, Draco will probably think so as well, but I used to read him those stories every night when he was a boy.” 

Hermione lifted The Tales of Beedle the Bard into her hands. It was an old edition, that was clear, the book worn from use by generation after generation. 

“Would you take this to him?” Narcissa asked, the question again seeming to be far more difficult than it should have been. 

Hermione flipped through the pages, her mind flipping quickly over the words she knew so well. It wasn’t until she heard Harry ask, “Hermione?” that she realized she had been sitting for some time, silently reading, remembering the past, and wondering what the future would hold. 

“Yes,” she said suddenly, looking up. “I’ll take it to him.” 

XXX

When they returned back to Grimmauld from tea, Hermione went straight up to her room. She felt exhausted, as if she had been running a marathon instead of sitting at a table with biscuits. Harry seemed to understand that she needed to be alone and let her leave him behind. Ron was at the shop working, and Ginny had gone to her trial. Hermione was struggling more than she cared to admit, even to herself in the aftermath of the visit. 

She curled up on her bed, not even bothering to pull down the blanket, and opened the book Narcissa had given her, reading over the words with care, even though she knew each one by heart. She tried to remember how she had felt about Draco then, but honestly he had barely been on her radar. Until the night in the manor, she hadn't thought or felt much at all, and then he had watched her tortured. She had been doing really well with her nightmares lately, but even the thought of that day made her feel off, like a Dementor had swooped into the room. He couldn't have helped her, she knew that, but it still hurt that he had been there, that his family had been there, and now she was in love with him, and where would that leave him with his family? There was no way to know for sure how Narcissa would react, but Hermione was not feeling especially positive about sharing the news with her in the wake of their visit. 

She was reading Babbitty Rabbitty when Harry knocked. She knew it must be him, that her alone time had ended, and he was ready to talk about their day, but she was still feeling so defeated about the whole endeavour. She ignored his knocking, refusing to invite him. He apparently wasn't waiting for an invitation. The door swing open after his second set of knocks, and she looked up from the book at him. His face was as open as the story before her, concern and fear clear across his expression. 

“Hermione,” he said, the hesitation in his voice mirrored by his uneasy stance, “I think we should talk.” 

She sat up, closing the book and setting it beside her on the bed. “What about?” she asked, as if she had no idea why he may be acting so oddly.

“What … I mean … it seems like …” - he ran a shaky hand through his jet black mop as he shook his head - “Is there something you aren't telling me?”

She stared, unsure if she should tell him the truth or not. “I don't know,” she said, dumbly. 

“I don't know what that means.” 

“I told you why I wanted to go.” 

“Yeah, you did, but, it still seems really odd. That was not an enjoyable meeting for any of us, and, well, with what you've been through with that family, it would be understandable if you never spoke to any of them, and you're asking me to arrange tea and taking gifts and … I know it's mad to even say it, but when you talk about him, it seems like, like …” he trailed off, apparently losing the ability to carry through on sharing whatever assumptions he had made. 

“I just wanted to do something for a friend, she insisted. 

“How much time do you spend with him?” he asked, echoing Narcissa’s question. She opened her mouth to reply, and he cut in, “don't lie to me. I'm done with being lied to by people I love.” 

She let her mouth fall shut and scooted to the edge of the bed, buying time as she tried to find the right words. He was standing about two feet from her door, and she wondered if he would slam it and storm away. She closed her eyes, remembering the tips of Draco’s fingers drawing patterns along her side as she tried to fall asleep at night. “Are you sure you want to know?” she whispered, not bothering to open her eyes, not able to bear the expression that would surely cross his face. 

“Tell me,” he implored, his voice shaking. 

“Every night. Every hour we can pretend to be studying. Every moment I can possibly make an excuse to be with him.” She did open her eyes then, needing to see her best friend, her brother, her family as he reacted to her far too honest admission. 

He had moved to the floor, sitting with his head between his knees. His world clearly rocked. She stared, watching closely as his fingers dug into the black tendrils of hair, rubbing at his scalp as if it would help clear away her words or make sense of them. “He hated you,” Harry said finally, speaking to his feet. 

“Not now. Not even at the beginning. I think he was too broken and too busy hating the people that ruined his family to hate me,” she said softly, realizing the truth of her own words as she spoke. 

“And, what about before all of that, everything he did?” Harry asked. 

“I don't know, Harry. I know it's insane, but I've just forgiven him. It's like … I can see myself in him.” It was so surreal to finally be talking to someone about Draco, to let someone into their circle.

“You in him?” Harry looked up quickly. “You're one of the best people I know.” 

“I was so lost, Harry.” Her voice broke, shaking as she tried to explain. 

“So he's your pet project?” Harry asked, almost as if he hoped it was true and that simple. 

“No, it isn't like that. We just … understand each other. We can talk about the war, and we just understand.” 

“You talk to him about the war?” Harry asked, surprised. 

“Of course, I do,” she said quietly, knowing this particular spot was sore for her best friend. “How else are we supposed to heal if we can't talk about it?” 

“I don't talk about it,” Harry said, his voice hollow. 

“And, it's working out so well for you!” she snapped, even though she knew she shouldn't. 

Harry just shook his head, ignoring her. “I just don't get it.” 

“You don't have to get it,” she told him. “But, you do have to give it a chance.” He owed her that, after everything they had endured together. 

“He could be going back to Azkaban, Hermione. There is no guarantee that the Wizengamot isn't going to put him right back in there,” Harry said, giving voice to the words she had refused to acknowledge in her mind for so long. 

“We won't let that happen,” she insisted. 

“You think they will listen to you, or me, when they find out you’re with him? They’re going to think he's cursed you or something.” 

“McGonagall checks his wand …” 

“I know. I know that, but these people want anyone to blame but themselves and right now we have far too much power for their liking.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, suddenly confused. 

“You, and me, and Ron. We're all heroes to this world. They look up to us like we're going to bring in a new age or something. You don't see it because you're off at Hogwarts, but it's clear to me. I experience it every day. I could probably unseat Kingsley if I wanted to, and I'm an eighteen year old Muggleborn for all intents and purposes who never sat his N.E.W.T.s,” Harry told her, and it was clearly something that had been exasperating him. 

“You aren't a Muggleb-" 

“I know less about this world than anyone with my blood ought to. I'm learning new things every day. The other day I looked up my Dad’s parents. I never even knew my grandparents names, and people would let me take over the damn Ministry if I asked, Hermione.”

“That's a bit terrifying,” she admitted as she began to consider the ramifications of this. 

“A bit, yeah. They never seem to learn. But, that isn't the point. The point is these old tossers who want things to stay the same are not on our side. There is a lot of pushback about me speaking up for the Malfoy’s already. Apparently, I disrupted the way things have always been done.” 

“They voted!” Hermione insisted, remembering that day, watching the vote. 

“And, it nearly didn't pass. You were there. You didn't know what to do yourself,” he reminded her. 

“I had decided to support him,” she said, as if she needed to defend herself. 

“That day at the last possible minute, and I'm pretty sure it was more for me than him,” Harry said. 

“Well, of course it was,” she admitted, reluctantly. 

“We just need to be careful, Hermione. You need to be careful. There are a lot of people who don't want you to change the world, and I know you, I know you're going to do it anyway.”

“I'm not letting them put him back there,” she said, fire burning behind her words. 

“And, I think you need to realize you might not be given a choice. You might be drug down with him if you try,” Harry said. 

“This is insane!” She was growing more and more frustrated with Harry, with the Wizarding World, with the ways they had of dealing with things. 

“This is the world we both chose to live in,” Harry reminded her. 

“Maybe I don't want to live in it anymore!” she snapped. 

“What is going on?” Ginny asked, and they both turned to look at her standing in the door.   
“Nothing,” Harry told her. “How was your trial?” 

“It was clearly something,” Ginny insisted. 

“I'm just fed up with the archaic laws we live under,” Hermione said. “How was it?” 

Ginny looked between them both, frowning. “It was really good, actually. I've … well, I've accepted a position starting immediately.”

“Immediately?” Hermione asked. 

“What?” Harry said at the same moment. 

“Yeah, I guess the spot was for now, one of the players is pregnant, and I told them I would take it.” 

“What about Hogwarts?” Harry asked, stepping forward, closer to his girlfriend. 

“I’ll drop out. This is what I want, my dream, why shouldn't I pursue it?” Ginny asked. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. 

“Yeah, I'm sure. Assuming you don't mind having me around all the time.” She smiled uneasily, clearly nervous, but Harry just moved forward to kiss her. 

“Of course not. Congratulations, Gin. This is incredible.” 

“I'm going to miss you so much,” Hermione told her. 

“I'll miss you, too.” Ginny pulled away from Harry to move over and hug Hermione. “We’ll still come visit as often as we can. And, the year is half over.” 

“I know. I'm so happy for you, Ginny.” It did not go unnoticed by Hermione that two years ago she would have thought Ginny was mad and this was a horrible mistake, but now, with everything they had been through, it was hard to find fault in her decision not to sit her N.E.W.T.s. The Holyhead Harpies were a notable team, even Hermione knew that. Ginny would be insane to pass on this opportunity. She would love it, be really, honestly happy with her job and hopefully be around Harry more, which would be good for both of them if she could just convince the man to open up a bit. 

“We should celebrate,” Harry decided. “I’ll ask Kreacher if he would mind making something special, or we can go out.” 

“I … well” - Hermione looked at Harry, willing him to understand - “I think I'm going to head back early.” 

“What?” Ginny asked, clearly shocked. 

“I need to get some of my own work done before the term begins again and I'm back to tutoring.” 

“Just tell McGonagall to find someone else if it's too much,” Ginny suggested. 

“That isn't how Hermione operates,” Harry said, his hand snaking around Ginny’s lower back to rest at the opposite side of her waist. 

Hermione allowed herself to breathe again at his words. He seemed to be accepting even if he couldn't understand yet, even if he insisted on planning for the worst. “I’ll write you,” she told him. 

“Yeah,” he agreed.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty Two 

Wednesday, December 31st, 1998

Draco lay brooding over his Potions textbook when the knock came at his door. He wasn't in the mood for Theo right now. His Christmas had been shit, he missed Hermione all the damn time, and, if he was being honest, it had not been easy to be cut off from regular sex cold turkey for over a week. He was pretty fucking done with this break. He was ready for her to be back, to hold her again, to have her with him as he studied, to know that she was okay, to hear about how her Christmas had been. 

He heard the knock again, and he sighed, letting his head fall back against the headboard. “Fuck off, Theo,” he snapped loudly. 

“It isn't Theo.” It took his brain a nanosecond to realize who was speaking. He quickly jumped off the bed, his book abandoned with a loud thud as it hit the floor. He swung the door open, taking in the sight of her, drinking her in. She had pulled her mad hair up into a bun, her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and her arms held a bundle of books as she bit her bottom lip as she smiled. 

“Fuck,” he said softly, and moved forward, his hand moved to her neck, pulling her closer to kiss her hard. She reacted in alarm, pushing back on him, but he just wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her closer as he kissed her deeply. He had missed her so fucking much, and she was here right in front of him. She tasted like tea and felt like home. It was still a bit terrifying how much she made him feel. His emotions were battling inside of his body, struggling to overpower each other. 

When it became clear that he wasn’t letting her go, Hermione finally started to kiss him back, one hand gripping his sweater tightly in her fingers as she let out a small noise against his lips and probably tried not to drop her beloved books. He hoped to Merlin they were just props and she hadn’t really been expecting to study. 

He pulled back after several long minutes when he could finally bear to put inches between them, leaning his forehead against hers, but she turned her head away. He was confused at first but then realized she was turning to look at Theo, who was in fact staring at them both, mouth hanging open like an idiot. 

“He knows,” Draco told her. “He knew before you left because he's apparently stalking us.” 

“Why does he look like that then?” she asked, turning back toward him. She didn’t seem upset by the news that Theo knew about them, which was something. 

“It's one thing to know, quite another to have the two of you going at it in front of me,” Theo said. Draco glared at him over Hermione’s shoulder as a flush spread up her cheeks. That flush of pink made him crazy. His cock had been hard from the moment he touched her, but that flush made him ache. He was losing his fucking mind, and he needed her naked and anyway she would have him. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Draco snapped at Theo. His hand gripped her elbow, and he pulled her gently by the arm into his room. 

“Harry knows too,” Hermione whispered. 

Draco shut the door, separating them from Theo. He stared at the wood grain for a solid thirty seconds before he turned to face her, afraid of what was coming next. What if her best friend didn’t want her to be with him? “You told him?” Draco asked, trying to conceal his surprise, but likely failing. He was struggling to hide anything from her these days. 

“We … well, we went to see your mother together, and he suspected something.” She stared at the carpet, her arms still clutching her books tightly to her chest. 

“You saw my mother?” he asked. His mother had actually seen her, spent time with Hermione. 

“We had tea,” Hermione told him. 

“You had tea with my mother?” It seemed a bit too odd to be possible. Surely his mother had not given tea to Hermione and Harry Potter. 

“Yes. Yesterday.” 

“Yesterday,” he repeated.

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” he asked, lacking a better response. He had imagined that one day he would need to put the two in a room together, force his mother to accept Hermione, hope and plead that they might get along, but the two of them had just gotten together for tea over Christmas. 

“I wanted to … I don't know. I just thought somehow it might help you.” Hermione walked towards his bed, and he watched her sit down, the mattress sinking slightly with her body. 

“Did you … what did you talk about?” he asked, not entirely sure he was ready for the answer. Had she told his mother what they were? Surely not. But, she said Potter had figured it out, so … His mother was not a stupid woman. 

“You. She wanted to know how you're doing. She gave me this.” Hermione shuffled through the small stack and grabbed a thin book Draco remembered quite well from his childhood, holding it out to him. 

“I …” he trailed off, overwhelmed with emotion as his fingertips touched the smooth cover of the book. 

“She … didn't seem to be happy to be talking to me, but she misses you and would do anything to get news about you. That is clear,” Hermione said. She set the rest of her books down beside her. Her expression was off, a bit sad or sullen. He hated that thinking about his mother made her feel that way. He didn’t expect Narcissa to understand or even approve, but he wished it wouldn’t be so hard on Hermione. He was in love with her, he wasn’t going to let her go, and there was nothing he could do at the moment to change how his mother thought about her. 

“Hermione ... thank you.” He closed the space between them, leaning down to kiss her head. “Thank you,” he said again. The book was silly. It was just children’s tales, but it was something that connected him to the only family he had left, something that connected him to a time when life was much simpler. 

Her fingers dug into his shirt, and she leaned into him. “What are we going to do?” she asked, and the emotion thick in her voice made it clear she was trying not to cry. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. He dropped the book onto the others and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. 

“She hates me, Draco,” she told his chest, and it hurt. Fuck did it hurt to hear those words. 

“I'm sure …” he started, trying to lie. 

“She tried,” Hermione cut him off, knowing the lie for what it would have been. “She tried very hard to be polite because I was giving her what no one else would or could, but she isn't going to be okay with this, and Harry thinks if people find out they will accuse you of doing something to bewitch me and throw you back … back there.” He could feel her tears through his shirt, but they were falling silently, the moisture the only sign of any change in her. 

“Hermione …” he whispered. He didn’t know what to say. They could throw him back there. They could do whatever the hell they wanted. He was a criminal, and he had done terrible things. This year they had given him to try to learn about Muggles, to try to repent for what he had done, to try to become a model citizen … it could all be taken away in the blink of an eye. He had no illusions about that. 

“I can't stop thinking about it. What it must have been like for you there, and I can't stop thinking that I might be why they send you back, and they can't do that to you, they just can't.” 

“Hermione …” he said again, his own voice catching as he remembered, as memories flooded him. It had been the worst time of his life. Just the memory made him itch for a shower. 

“I had just been refusing to say it out loud, but Harry said it, and now I'm terrified. I'm just so scared of what they could do to ...” 

He pulled her chin up with his finger and thumb and kissed her then, not the fervent, hard kiss he had given her in the open doorway, but the slow, steady kiss of a man reassuring the woman he loved that they were together, that he was here in front of her and nowhere else. She tasted like salty tears and home. 

“Hermione,” he whispered against her moist lips, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” she muttered, shaking. 

He pulled back, refusing to let her look down as he met her eyes. “We're not going to let that happen, okay? And … I don't know about my mother. I really don't, but we'll figure it out. She had you for tea, and I'm sure it was hard for you, but that's honestly more than I would have expected at this point.”

“She's going to hate us being together,” she told him. “I can't … if we … I mean ….” 

“What?” he asked, not sure what he was missing. 

XXX

Wednesday, December 31st, 1998

Draco let go of her chin as she struggled to find words, and she slipped out from the bed. She couldn't have him standing over her like that if she was going to bare her soul. She couldn't feel stuck between him and the mattress. 

She took a few steps away from him, but she didn't feel any more confident. “I just … I've been thinking … long term, and I don't know what you’re thinking … but how is she going to react if … I don’t know ...” 

She was seeing visions of a life with him. Marriage, careers, and she did want children someday, but it was utterly mad to say that, to even think it. They had just admitted that they were in love with each other before she left. It had only been months since they could hold a conversation. 

It wasn’t like when she used to imagine her future. Everything had been so set in stone before the war. The marriage was to Ron, she had just known they would figure things out eventually, the career was something in the Ministry of Magic, likely in Magical Creatures and then moving up through the ranks, the children came when her career was well established, and they had found a house. The plan was concrete, it never changed, except perhaps the color of the front door. 

Now, her plan was hardly a plan, just vague imaginings of what she and Draco could have if they stayed together after the year ended, and he was cleared by the Ministry. She had no idea what they would do for work, or where they would live, or if they would get married, or if he would ever want children, but she still dreamed about it. She still found the logical side of her brain giving way to the girl who had fallen in love with a boy that she didn’t want to let go of, a boy that she wanted a life with, and when she found her mind leaping forward, creating images of what could be, he was always there. He was the constant feature of her future life. 

Draco just stared at her, his expression hard as he clearly thought through his own inner turmoil. “Hermione,” he said finally, breaking a long silence, “I'm not sure you understand what your life is going to be like if you stay with me.” 

“Don't treat me like I'm a child, Draco,” she snapped. 

“I'm not,” he insisted. 

“You think I don't know things are going to be hard? My life hasn't exactly been the smoothest in this area, you know." She scowled at him. “I still get the rogue hate mail about destroying Harry or Viktor, and the only boy I ever wanted before you spent sixth year with his face attached to my roommate.” 

“It's not the same. We won't be kids at school navigating crushes.” 

“Bobotuber pus.” She could still remember the way it felt when it touched her skin, sending her running to the hospital wing as quickly as her feet would take her. 

He closed the gap between them, reaching for her hand. She nearly pulled hers back, but let him take it. He was trying to be noble, to protect her, however misguided the attempt may be. “People will be trying to destroy me and everything I care about.” 

“I don't care,” she told him. 

“You say that, but,” 

“I don't care, Draco. You’re the only person that makes me feel like I'm me again, like I've found a new part of myself that can be happy after what I've been through.” She squeezed his hand, and leaned her forehead against his. “All I wanted over break was to be back with you.” 

“I know.” He sighed, his breath tickling her lips. “Me too, but they won't see that.” 

“I don't care what they see,” she whispered. 

Draco kissed her softly, his lips moving in a gentle rhythm against hers, as if thanking her for wanting to stay by his side. “So, what do you want?” he asked when he had pulled back. 

“What do you mean?” 

“After the year is over, what do you want? What does that look like?” he pushed his hand through his hair, and she imagined that he was trying to appear as if he wasn’t just as terrified as she was. 

“I don't know.” She shrugged as her own hand ran along the back of her neck. 

“You obviously were thinking something,” he told her. “Something you thought my mother wouldn’t like.” 

“Do I have to spell it out?” 

“You wanted the actual words when I said I loved you,” he reminded her, still giving her plenty of space to fidget. 

She shook her head, smiling at him as she couldn’t argue that point. She had made him say the words, and now it was his turn to insist she be clear. “I don’t know where we go from here. I just want it to be with you, and I want … I’ve always wanted certain things that I would hope to have with you.” 

“What things?” He was smirking now, and she was about ready to slap him for being a cocky shit, but she help back, balling up her fingers. 

“A life, Draco. A home, maybe one day being married or having children. I doubt your mother would approve of you having any of those things with me.” 

It only took him a second to be right in front of her again, kissing her hard, pulling her back to his bed. She didn’t even fight it. His reaction to her words sent a shiver of pleasure through her body. It seemed as if he was agreeing, as if he wanted these things too, as if they would find a way to overcome whatever was facing them out there. She was tempted to be lulled back into the comfortable feeling of him and her, where nothing else mattered, but she had gone back out into the world, and no matter what, she couldn’t let herself forget that their were people out there, people who wanted Draco in prison, who would do anything to separate them, to refuse to believe that he could have changed. 

Draco dropped her onto the bed and climbed up her body. She tried to control herself as he began to kiss her again when he reached the exposed skin above her breasts, but she was letting out small moans within seconds. He made his way up her chest and neck, slowly devouring her skin as she gripped his t-shirt with her fingers. She realized the he was heading for her ear moments before his breath tickled her there. “I love you so fucking much, and I don’t give a Niffler’s ass what my mother thinks.” His hand snaked underneath her shirt, and she pressed her body up into the sensation of his skin touching hers. He hadn’t touched her in far too long. She wanted nothing more than to be bare before him, to feel his body over hers. “I will take everything you give me, Hermione. Everything.” She wished she could see his eyes, but he seemed to be intentionally positioning himself to avoid her gaze with his lips at her ear, so she just pulled up on the shirt she was gripping, refusing to deal with him being clothed any longer. The words he had whispered were too much, meant too much for her to deal with right now. She needed him now, the rush of sensations that only he could give her, the feeling of being utterly complete when he was inside of her.

XXX

Friday, January 2nd, 1999

He was late. Usually, that was Harry’s job, but today he had been early. Shockingly early in fact. So early that he had already finished two cups of coffee when Dudley appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a hat and jacket which were both dusted with the snow falling outside. He met Harry’s eyes for a brief moment as he looked around the coffee shop, and then look down at his black boots as he walked towards the counter to order his own drink. Harry sat fidgeting with the handle of his cup for several long minutes as he waited for his cousin to find his way into the chair across from him. 

After he had found his seat, Dudley pulled off his hat and set it on the table before pulling his mug closer to his body. “Hey, Harry.” 

“Hey, Dudley,” Harry replied, still unsure why in the world he was here. It made very little sense for Dudley to have written him and less still that he had written back and agreed to this meeting. 

“Did you have a good holiday?” Dudley asked. He was still a big man, but he mass had continued to change, morphing into muscle where there had once been pudge. 

“Yeah. Spent it with the Weasleys. You?” Harry wasn’t positive that Dudley would remember who the Weasley’s were, but he suspected the twins had left enough of an impression on him that he might. 

He nodded as if Harry’s statement made perfect sense. “Yeah. You know. Same as ever.” 

They sat there, staring down at the liquid in their respective cups, watching steam rise. “So,” Harry said, breaking the silence, “you wanted to meet?” 

“Oh, I just … I wanted to see how you were.” Dudley shrugged his massive shoulders. 

“I’m fine,” Harry told him, trying not to think about the many reasons that he was, in fact, not fine at all. Dudley didn’t need to know about any of that. 

“I guess … I just heard sort of what happened from that fellow who came to move us back home, and it seemed really crazy,” Dudley explained. 

“I suppose it was,” Harry agreed, desperately hoping that Dudley was not going to continue deeper into the war. 

“So … I just thought I could write you, and, well, just check up.” Dudley shrugged again, which seemed to be his default reaction to this entire affair. 

“Oh,” Harry said, unsure what in the world he could say to that. He was shocked honestly that Dudley would have cared what he had been through, especially enough to contact him, even if it did take six months for him to do so. 

“I guess … It’s weird. I can just go,” Dudley said, reaching for his hat. 

“No,” Harry spat out quickly, before he could even really think. It was so odd, this whole thing, but he had no one left that he really could call family. Hermione and Ron were like family, but their blood was not his blood. As peculiar as it was, Harry found himself hoping that perhaps, he and Dudley might be able to find some way of navigating a relationship beyond ignoring each other's existence. Dudley stopped at looked at him both of them quiet, waiting for Harry to speak. “It is weird, but … you don’t have to go,” he said finally. 

Dudley hesitated for another few moments before he settled back in his seat and released his grip on his hat. “Okay.” 

“So, what are you doing now?” Harry asked, hoping to move the conversation in a safer direction. 

“University. Boxing. Seeing a girl. Mum hates her, of course.” Dudley shook his head. 

Harry laughed at this, suddenly feeling more comfortable. The idea of his Aunt Petunia having to accept another woman in her son’s life was more than a little amusing. “I’m pretty sure she’s going to hate anyone you date.” 

“I’m pretty sure, yeah. I told her I was looking at getting an apartment, and she cried for days, so … that’s Mum, I guess. You seeing anyone?” 

“Yeah. Uh, living with someone actually,” Harry told him.

“Living with her? Who is she?” 

“Her name is Ginny. She’s my friend Ron’s sister. She plays Quidditch, it’s a sport on brooms, and she’s just been recruited to a pretty big team. She’s really excited.” 

“You mean … like flying around on them?” Dudley asked, amazed. 

Harry nodded as he sipped at his coffee, trying to remember the last time he had a decent fly about and realizing it had been too long. “Yeah. Your Mum would hate her, too.” He smiled at the thought of what Ginny might do if she ever met his Aunt. 

It was Dudley’s turn to laugh then, and Harry marveled over the moment. He was sitting in a coffee shop with his cousin drinking coffee and talking about girls. It was so utterly unexpected, but at the same time, so completely welcome. There was a lot of pain left when he thought about his Aunt and Uncle, pain that he doubted he would ever truly be able to look past to have any sort of relationship with them, not that they had asked for one, but between him and Dudley … well, there might be room for something there.


	23. Chapter 23

Sunday, January 3rd, 1999

Waking before Harry was rare, but it did happen. Ginny usually slipped from their bed carefully, hoping not to wake him, but today she just watched him, lost in her own thoughts. McGonagall had written her back with words of congratulations, but insurances of the important role N.E.W.T.s could one day have in her life. The woman was ever a contradiction, pulled in two directions by her deep love for Quidditch and knowledge. Her reaction had been precisely as Ginny had predicted. 

Harry, on the hand, remained unreadable. He seemed pleased for her, but he was still wrapped so tight, so closed away from her. He and Hermione had been arguing about something important. She knew it, but he refused to tell her what it was, brushing it off as a triviality when it clearly wasn’t. He was back at work this week, his efforts completely entrenched in overworking his mind again. She wanted to scream at him, to demand he stay home, to hit his chest until he said something, anything of actual value to her. It had been half a year and nothing. 

Since Christmas, she had started to wonder how long she would wait, what the limit on her patience truly was. She could get own flat now if she wanted. Her salary from the Harpies would more than cover it, but she wasn't ready. She loved him. Despite knowing that he was incapable of giving her what she needed, she was dedicated to trying, to proving to herself that she had done everything first. 

He sighed in his sleep, a deep breath exhaled through those lips she knew so well, and she licked her own, wondering what he was thinking about. She wished she had a lens that would allow her into his dreams. Perhaps they would tell her what it was he battled with inside that thick head of his. 

Ginny moved closer her hand resting on his cotton t-shirt a moment before she claimed his lips. He didn't react at first, but she persisted moving over his body. She needed to feel closer to him, to close the endless gap for just a few moments, to make the distance seem breachable. Within a few moments, his hands were moving sleepily up her thighs as he began to kiss her back. 

She rocked against his boxers, and he breathed heavily into her kiss. Fingers dug into her thighs, and she relished in the small bit of pain. He wanted her. He needed her. She could see it in his eyes. She could feel it in the way he gripped her during sex. She could hear it in the unsaid words. He needed her, and she wasn't ready to give up on him yet. 

“Harry,” she whispered, “fuck me.” She wasn't interested in making love this morning as the first rays of sun touched their curtains. She wanted to feel his need, to assure herself that it existed, that she wasn't a crazy woman holding out for the impossible. 

Harry groaned and pulled her down against his body. “Gin,” he mumbled, and he tossed her to the side onto her back. She waited for him to move over her, his eyes still bleary from sleep. He placed a knee on either side of her body and looked down at her. She wore his old jersey. She had her own of course, but his fell long enough to be a nightgown, and he'd told her that he loved it when she wore it. His number stared back up at him, and he grinned. “You're fucking gorgeous.” 

“I know,” she told him, shrugging as she smiled up at him. “Now, fuck me.”

“I think those Harpies are a bad influence on you.” Harry's fingers moved under the jersey and pushed it up just enough to reveal her knickers. 

“They just teach me to take what I want.” She licked her lips again and pushed her hips up the slightest bit. 

Harry pulled the black cloth down her legs as she helped him to do it quickly. “You know what the Aurors teach me?” he asked, gazing down beneath her legs.

“How to aim?” she teased. 

Harry’s fingers touched the inside of her knee and moved down slowly. She would kill him. She didn't want this. She didn't need this. She needed him hard and fast. 

“Patience.” Harry grinned and two of his fingers moved inside of her. She rocked against them on instinct, her body needing something, anything. 

“I'm going to curse you,” she promised. 

Harry ignored her, dipping his head down to lick at her clit as his fingers moved in and out of her. She grabbed his hair and urged him closer as his tongue flicked across the nub. It wasn't enough. None of this was enough. “You seem to like it,” he told her, and the vibrations of his words made her moan. 

“You know what I want,” she demanded. Harry sighed dramatically, the air tickling her thighs as he moved away. His hand pulled back too, moving to his own trousers. He pushed them down to his knees, and his cock bounced as it sprang free. Her need pulsed at the sight. She just wanted him inside of her, part of her, needing her. 

Harry stroked his cock slowly as one of his fingers moved into his mouth to taste her. She moaned again, angry at him for being capable of being such as ass when he had just been asleep. 

Finally, he moved down over her, his tip at her slit, and she bit his lip hard as he leaned in to kiss her. He shoved into her then, his cock entering her in one fluid motion which made her grip the sheets and cry out. “Yes,” she told him. “Fuck, yes.” It was good, so fucking good to have him inside of her, to have him thrusting into her without abandon. He was done teasing her, done playing his games, and now he gave her what she wanted. She looked into his eyes and saw his hunger, saw his love, saw his desperation, and she got everything she needed. Moments like this were why she wasn't ready to let go, to give up on him. When they were like this, when he allowed himself to be vulnerable and open and burying himself inside of her, it was almost as if she didn't need the words, as if she could almost read them in his eyes. 

XXX

Wednesday, January 6th, 1999

Ron poured over the inventory, his hair beyond ruffled, his sweater tossed over a nearby chair. His tea was beyond cold, abandoned on the edge of one of the work tables. He felt as if he was always doing inventory, as if his life revolved around the count of Skiving Snackboxes and Nosebleed Nougat these days, but it was only because he was still getting a sense for production, for what the supply and demand of the place really was. The shop had closed hours ago. George had the day off, and Verity had been up front working on new displays the last time Ron had seen her. That had been a good while ago though, so she could be gone now.

He could go home, he probably should go home, but he plugged away at the inventory instead, counting each section by hand when his wand would do the trick. It just seemed like the way it should be done. This place still felt reverent to him. He found himself pulling his keys from his pocket several times a day to make sure that Fred’s key remained there, resting on the ring next to the keys to Grimmauld and the Burrow. He wasn’t crazy. He had really given up being an Auror, a dream he had realized he hadn’t really cared much for after all, to do this. 

As he moved over to the WonderWitch products, Ron grinned at the thought. He wished Fred were alive. He would give this up in a second without even thinking about it to have Fred back. Knowing that wasn’t an option, being here, taking part in his legacy was the best next thing. He snorted at the Love Potions, remembering how upset they had all been at Ginny about her love life when she had first seen them. He didn’t know what to think about her. He felt proud of her, glad that she had followed her dreams, but he couldn’t help but wonder if she was really happy with Harry being the way he was. He wanted her to be happy. He wished that it would be with Harry. He loved and trusted Harry, but not at the expense of her being miserable. He sighed rubbing the back of his neck as he finished jotting down the Love Potions numbers on the parchment. 

“Mr. Weasley?” Verity asked, pulling his attention from the inventory. 

“Yes?” Ron asked, still not quite used to having someone refer to him so formally. She had just started that after Christmas, and he wasn’t sure he cared for it. 

“I finished the display. I’m going to head home,” she said. “Unless you need anything else?” 

 

“No,” Ron assured her, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I should be heading out, too. Thank you for taking care of that.” 

“Of course.” She reached behind her, pulling at the strings of the apron she had been wearing before hanging it on the hook. Ron turned back to his work, ignoring his own advice to head home. After several minutes, he realized that Verity hadn’t actually left. He looked up to find her standing with her coat draped over her arms. She stared at him oddly, biting her lip. 

“Yes?” he asked again, surprised. 

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I … well … if you needed someone to talk to … I just mean, you’re always here, and I guess … it can’t have been easy, this past year, and I just … it seems like you could use a friend, not that you don’t have friends, but maybe a new friend, a friend that didn’t go through it all with you.” The words rushed out of her in such quick succession that Ron had to think about them for a full minute before he had really comprehend what she had said. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said, nodding. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” she told him, flushed. She began to leave, but turned back once more, giving him an embarrassed smile. “You should really go home. This will still be here in the morning.” 

“Yeah.” Ron put the quill down. It was his turn to give her a guilty smile. He hadn’t really intended to leave at all. He would have stayed here for another hour at least. “Okay.” 

He grabbed his wand from the table and his sweater to follow her out of the store. They turned the lights off as they walked towards the front of the store. She waited as he turned the lock in the door, and they stood there in front of the shop together, both feeling a bit awkward. “You know,” Ron said, finally, “I’m okay if you just want to keep calling me Ron. It seems weird to change it now.” 

She nodded, smiling at him. “Okay. Good night, Ron.” 

“Good night,” he told her. 

XXX

Saturday, January 9th, 1999

Hermione watched the Headmistress closely as she finished up the letter she had been writing to Kingsley. Hermione had tried to excuse herself when she realized that the Headmistress was busy, but she had insisted that Hermione and Draco remain. Apparently, she wanted to hear how their lessons were going.

Now that they were here, seated before the Headmistress, Hermione was altogether uncertain that this was a good idea. Perhaps she should have come alone. Maybe that would have gone over better, but Draco had a right to be part of this. His life was affected even more than hers by them being together at this point if Hermione was really being honest. 

“Sorry,” McGonagall told them as she placed her quill to the side. “Had to get that down, or I would never have remembered everything I needed to say.” 

“Of course,” Hermione told her, glancing over at Draco. He rubbed his temple with his fingers, clearly just as uneasy as she was.

“So, how are your lessons going? Are you feeling like it’s coming together at all Mr. Malfoy?” the Professor asked, hopefully. 

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Granger is a great teacher.” 

The Headmistress seemed pleased by his response. “I’m extremely proud of you both for putting the past behind you and working together on this.” 

“We’ve ... “ Hermione glanced over again, but Draco avoided her eyes by staring straight ahead at the Professor. “We’ve been enjoying it.” 

“Really?” McGonagall herself seemed surprised by her reaction, but Hermione couldn’t really blame her. “Is that … well … how is it going for you Mr. Malfoy?” she asked. 

Hermione openly turned to look at Draco as he finally met her eyes briefly. “It’s been … really good,” he said, but he didn’t look away. Hermione smiled at him, hoping that her nerves weren’t too obvious. 

“That’s excellent. I will admit, I hoped that the two of you would come to a truce of sorts, but it seems that you are starting to …” 

“I love her.” Draco interrupted suddenly. 

It took Hermione a very long moment to realize that he had actually said the three words out loud, that they hadn’t been some phantom ghosting of his voice inside of her head. Her mouth dropped open in surprise, and she looked over at Headmistress McGonagall who seemed to reflect her own surprise. 

“It just sort of happened,” Hermione added, not really sure that she helped with her addition. 

“We’re concerned about how it may be perceived if it gets out,” Draco concluded, getting straight to the point. They had debated what to do, and finally settled on speaking to the Headmistress to get some guidance. They knew that she wanted Draco to be successful in his rehabilitation, so they considered her a safe person to share their relationship with. However, blurting it at her while she was talking had not been part of the plan. 

Before them, Minerva McGonagall covered her mouth with her hand as she attempted to pull herself together. “I'm … Hermione, you feel the same way for Draco?” she asked finally. 

“Yes,” Hermione said softly. Her lips slipped up into a stupid grin that she couldn’t really control. 

McGonagall pushed up from her desk, spinning to stare at the apparently asleep Dumbledore. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” she asked. Dumbledore shrugged, a small smile gracing his lips as he continued to feign sleep. “You miserable …” She trailed off as her hand rose to her forehead. 

“Headmistress…” Hermione began, but the other woman waved her hand at her. 

“You’re perfectly in your right to fall in love with whomever you like, Hermione,” she said, but her voice sounded tired as she took her seat again. “Who knows about this?” 

“Theodore Nott and Harry Potter,” Draco told her. “My …” Draco glanced at Hermione. “My mother may suspect something. Hermione went to visit her over the break.” 

“You visited Narcissa Malfoy?” 

Hermione nodded. “Harry went with me.” 

“Are you planning to share this publicly?” the Headmistress asked, looking between her two students, clearly still attempting to find her footing. 

“We, well, Harry was worried that it might hurt Draco’s chance of completing his probation process. We hoped that you might have some advice about how to navigate the next several months until he completes it.” Hermione looked uneasily across the desk at the Headmistress, hoping that she would have some sort of answer for them. As she bit her lip nervously, she felt Draco’s fingers wrap around hers. 

“Yes. He isn’t wrong. Let me think about this for a few days. I would appreciate it if you would continue to keep this quiet until we can talk again.” 

“Of course,” Hermione told her, nodding. 

McGonagall turned to look directly at Draco. “The Minister is very invested in your rehabilitation, assuming that it is genuine. He wants you to be successful, and he would be an ally in this situation, I believe. Would either of you mind if I discuss this with him?”

Draco met her eyes questioningly, and Hermione nodded. “I trust Kingsley,” he told him. 

“Then, so do I.”


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four   
Wednesday, January 13th, 1999

The shop had been empty for over a year at least. There was obvious signs of neglect everywhere. The windows and surfaces were covered in a thick layer of dust. Spiderwebs lurked in far too many dark spaces for Ron’s comfort. He kept his hand by his wand just in case one of them decided to produce an actual spider. After his second year, there was no way he would trust any of the spiders in Hogsmeade to not be intent on eating him. 

“What do you think?” George asked. He looked around the shop as if it was his brand new baby. In many ways, Ron supposed it was. 

“It’s filthy,” Ron said, mostly just to irritate his older brother. 

“Yeah, well, you should have seen the Diagon Alley shop when we bought it. Worse than this by far.” George wiped at the old counter. The disturbed dust flew into the air. 

“It’ll be good.” Ron hit him on the back as he passed him and moved deeper into the space. Behind the counter was a door which he discovered led to a storage room. There was mostly more dust, but there were a few boxes as well. Ron hoped they were empty.

“Do you think you could fix it up? Get it ready to operate?” George followed him into the storage room.

“You sure?” Ron asked. George had told him of his plans to have Ron take point on the new shop that morning before they left to come see the space. He was still a little surprised that George trusted him to do this on his own, but he was looking forward to the task. It already felt like he belonged here a little bit more than he did in Diagon Alley. 

“Completely. Just don’t screw it up,” George told him, winking. 

“When is our goal?” Ron asked him. 

“It would be great if we could get her running before the students leave, but realistically, grand opening will probably happen in the summer.” 

“We’ll be set for September though. The quick shipments from here will be incredible.” Ron said, looking in the direction of Hogwarts, though he couldn’t see it through the wall. He half wished he could head up there and just drop in on Hermione. 

“I will be highly disappointed if the Hogwarts student body does not take advantage of our close proximity,” George agreed. 

XXX 

Saturday, January 16th, 1999

“You know, this is important,” Hermione insisted as Draco’s breath ghosted across her neck, his lips dragging their way up to her ear. They were in their classroom again, door locked behind them, N.E.W.T.s study materials spread across multiple desks. Hermione had created color coded charts for them both and spent an entire afternoon explaining the schedule to Draco as he tried to pretend that he wasn’t finding her anxiety and over-preparedness adorable and a bit unnecessary. He finally gave in to his baser desires when she tried to shift gears from lecturing about the schedule to actually using it. She wanted him to study Potions for two hours, but he had no intention of doing anything until after they took a nice break. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispered. He pulled her tighter into his lap and her body betrayed her mind, pressing her body down to grind against his. She was wearing a skirt even though it was the weekend, and he was so, so grateful. 

“Fuck, Draco. We have to study for N.E.W.T.s.” Her voice had already reached that lovely, deep tone it took on when they were shagging. Her resistance was already futile. 

“Breaks are imperative for our emotional health. You’re mind will be clearer after I’ve made you come. Less distractions that way.” As he spoke, his hand wound under her blessed skirt. Her fingers dug into his arms as he slid his fingers inside of her. 

“We both managed just fine with O.W.L.s without it,” she whispered as her hips rocked slightly against his hand. 

“That’s because neither of us had any idea what you were missing. Now that we know” — his thumb found her clit and began to spin in rhythmic circles — “you will surely need regular attention to relieve your stress and need. I know that I will.” 

“How regular?” Her hands were down between them now, pulling at the button of his trousers. 

“I would say … at least once a session. Some study sessions may call for more diligent stress relief. There may be times when … well …” He trailed off as she freed him. Her hand slid up and down his cock, ensuring that he was hard before they shifted their position to allow her to sink down onto him.

“Draco,” she moaned his name, her need climbing as she engulfed him. “Okay. Scheduled breaks,” she agreed against his neck, her teeth following her words by sinking into his skin. 

Draco gasped and bucked up into her. “Sometimes we may need to forget studying all together and do an intensive course of action.” His hands gripped her ass, digging into the soft flesh as she rode him. 

“Shut up,” she told him as her head fell forward onto his shoulder and her breath grew more labored. They were never going to get through their N.E.W.T.s prep at this rate. She would fail to get any N.E.W.T.s and surely be drug through the press for having lost all sense, and Draco would wind up back in Azkaban, and it would all be because she couldn’t say no when he turned on that low voice and touched her below her damn skirt. 

 

XXX

Monday, January 18th, 1999

Ginny knew what she needed to do. She avoided actually doing it as long as she could, trying to come up with another option that might get her what she needed, but when it really came down to it; there is no replacement for your mother’s advice. So, she found herself arriving at the Burrow on a brisk January morning. Her heart thumped madly in her chest as a blend of emotions erupted inside her heart. She loved her mother. She had missed her, and if she was really going to be honest, this thing between them had probably gone on far too long. It was time to figure out how to leave it in the past, and see if she could do something to help Harry. 

As she crossed the yard, Ginny tried to collect herself, imagining what she would say when her mother opened the door, but no words were coming to mind. The front door she had so easily walked through a million times before seemed nearly insurmountable. She knew she could just walk in. She knew her parents would expect her to, but it didn't feel right. She felt like a visitor to this place she had called home for so long. Harry was her home now. 

She rose her hand to knock, but the door swung open on its hinges. Her mother was on her in the next moment, hugging her tightly. Ginny was instantly overwhelmed by the familiar scents of baking and rosemary shampoo, both of which would forever remind her of her mother and fill her with a feeling of safety and security with which nothing else could compete. She broke down entirely, falling against Molly, letting out a loud sob as she began to cry. It didn’t matter if she ugly cried to her Mum. She had seen and heard it all, rocked her to sleep as a screaming babe, laid with her in the middle of the night after her nightmares, and held Ginny as she had cried for Harry, for all of them, on more than one occasion during the war. It felt so unbelievably right to fall to pieces now in her warm embrace. 

“Ginny,” her mother whispered, and Ginny could feel that she was crying as well. They stood there for a long time in each other’s arms, each refusing to let go of the other. 

XXX

They had settled themselves in the kitchen sitting at the table, cups of tea held in both of their hands. The kitchen looked much the same as it always had, the same as it had looked at Christmas, the same as it had looked the day Ginny had stormed out and left her home, likely for good. As Ginny sat in one of the worn wooden chairs, her stomach bubbled with dualing sensations of belonging and unease. She reached up to nervously twist a lock of her hair which had fallen loose from the bun she had piled it all in before practice that day. 

“So,” her mother began as Ginny said, “I need your help.” 

 

“Okay.” The older woman lifted her cup to her lips, sipping as she waited for Ginny to continue. 

“Or advice, I guess,” Ginny corrected. “It’s Harry.” She already knew that her parents were concerned about him, that they had reached out to him on several occasions in hopes of him letting them help, so she was sure that her Mum would understand. 

Molly nodded, her expression growing sad, accentuating the lines in her aging face. After two wars, seven children, and the loss of Fred, there was no denying that her mother, her parents really, were getting older. “Your father and I are worried about him.” 

“I think most people who love Harry are worried about him,” Ginny agreed. She let out a breath and stared down into her own cup. “He’s … He won’t talk about it at all, Mum. Not to me. Not to Hermione. Not even Ron. He’s just … he’s so bottled up with it all. I feel like … like I’m failing him.” Admitting that she wasn’t able to help Harry alone was a unique kind of painful. 

“Ginny” — her warm, life worn hand fell onto one of Ginny’s Quidditch worn hands, squeezing gently — “you can’t be responsible for fixing Harry all on your own, especially when he’s insisting on persevering as if nothing happened.” 

“It’s suffocating,” Ginny told her as tears began to roll down her cheek. She tried to brush them away with her free hand, but they just kept coming, unbidden. “It’s like there is Harry and me, and then there is this huge weight in the room that is everything he won’t deal with.”

“You can’t keep living that way, either of you.” Molly shook her head and lifted her cup to her lips, and Ginny wondered if it was to keep herself from saying something more. Her mother’s tone, her body, everything was overly gentle in this moment.

“I know. I … I don’t want to give up on him, but I can’t do this. I can’t keep having one sided conversations and pretend like I don’t know he’s falling apart inside. I can’t keep wondering if he’s ever going to really come back to me from that tent he was living in.” It was as if his mind was still out there, out there in the forest, dead set on staying there for the rest of his days. 

“Have you told him all of this? Exactly how you feel? That you need him to open up?” Molly asked, her voice still softer than normal. 

“I don’t know. We’ve argued about it, but even that feels like nothing is really accomplished.” Ginny sighed and ran her finger along the brim of her cup. 

“Sometimes things like this are taken best when you aren’t arguing. I think you need to figure out exactly how you feel and what you need to stay with Harry, and then tell him.” 

“You’re not … I mean you aren’t going to try to get me to move back here?” She almost felt a bit guilty bringing it up, but she knew that she needed to make it clear that this trip hadn’t been about that. 

It was her mother’s turn to sigh softly. “I don’t love the two of you living together before you’re married. I would be very happy if you moved home until that happened, but I have no doubt in the way either of you feels for the other, and I can’t lose you. I can’t not have you, knowing that you’re out there. It’s … I can’t do that again.” 

“Okay,” Ginny said, suddenly feeling the weight of Percy’s long hiatus from the family and Fred’s more permanent passing. It wasn’t right for any of them to be at odds like this. It wasn’t right for any of them to waste whatever time they had together. She needed to do her part to not let things like this fester and grow into rifts that separated them for months at a time. It wasn’t always easy being part of a family, but she was lucky to still have hers, to still have people that loved and cared about her, and she owed them her best effort at the very least. 

“Would you and Harry want to come to dinner Saturday? It will just be Dad and I.” Her mother’s voice was calm and even, but Ginny could tell that the question was anything but easy and light. Ginny could easily tell her Mum that it was too early for that, but she wouldn’t do that. Not this time. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I would like that.”


End file.
